


Old Rules For New Side Pieces

by Shamelessquestions (KagekitsuneXXX)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cheating, Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Violence, Love Triangles, M/M, Mention of Suicide Attempt, Romance, Trans Character, Trans Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KagekitsuneXXX/pseuds/Shamelessquestions
Summary: It took a while, but Ian finally has his shit together--a career, a steady relationship, and a good grip on his mental health. Then along comes a man who might just set a match to all of it, and Ian might just let him.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Trevor
Comments: 321
Kudos: 555





	1. Ground Rules

_So you want to be a side piece, or maybe you’re newly minted--taking your first, fawn-like, thotty steps into the world. Some side pieces are born, others achieve it, some have side piece-ness thrust upon them. Either way, you find yourself in strange, bold, new territory. Whether it’s because of attraction, ambition, apathy or what have you; understand, there are some basic rules to be observed if you’re going to emerge at the end of all of this emotionally, financially, and physically intact. Now, you’re grown (at least you better be!) and nobody’s trying to tell you your business. But you are not a professional and this can get super messy. So let’s start from ground zero._

**_Rule 0: Leave that mess alone._ ** _As stated, unless you’re a professional trying to pull you a rapper, an NBA player, or maybe even just someone to save you from the horrors of public transit, one can almost guaran-damn-tee you don’t really want this problem. Oh is the attraction off the charts? It sizzles when you touch? Do they have so much drip, you could surf on it? Girl/Boy/Beloved, no. Nip this in the bud. This ain’t nothing but a headache._

* * *

Ian hated these details. He was glorified security, watching the rich and powerful mingle and pretend to care deeply about art, culture, and the less privileged. The gala, like most galas he’d been forced to attend, was boring him to tears. Still, with the number of oligarchs, politicians and borrowed art in the building, the possibility of an international incident hung in the air. Consequently, Ian and a number of his special agent brethren were sprinkled liberally throughout the proceedings, ears cocked and eyes peeled in case anything mildly interesting were to happen.

Ian sighed and checked his watch before doing another quick survey of the hall and the sweeping staircase leading into it. His eyes landed on a newcomer who had paused at the top of the landing--a dark-haired young man who seemed to be taking in the scene far more intently than anyone ought to. Ian’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the new arrival. The newcomer had still not made a move from the landing and was instead idly scratching the side of his nose as he continued to take in everything and everyone.

He didn’t look like money, whether old or new, and Ian had been forced to learn all the Who’s Who attending that night. Looking amazing in a suit wasn’t enough to ensure that a person fitted into his glitzy surroundings, and this guy didn’t fit. Instead, he was now on Ian’s radar and the first interesting thing to happen that night.

The man finally descended the stairs and almost immediately accosted a waiter to relieve him of two flutes of champagne. The man quickly downed one, plunked the glass back down on the tray, and stepped away to nurse his remaining drink and continue his apparent surveillance. Ian followed his mark’s sightline. The man seemed to be taking interest in the security cameras--visible and otherwise. Ian moved further into the room, keeping his mark in sight as the man wandered around the ballroom, not even pretending to mingle with anyone but the waiters and their trays of food and alcohol.

Unexpectedly, the man paused his roving, making Ian freeze in place as well. Slowly, the man turned, sweeping the chattering crowd around him, clearly searching for something in particular until he finally made eye-contact with Ian. The two stared at each other from across the room, faces blank, neither moving. Ian completely forgot what he was supposed to be doing, his mind momentarily zapped clean by whatever powerful electrical connection he and his mark had just established. The other man finally shifted slightly, a slow smirk spreading across the features as he slowly raised the champagne flute to his lips and swept Ian sensually from head to toe. The mark finally seemed to sniff and turned to wander off once again, releasing Ian from the spell. Ian blinked, remembered himself, and went after him.

* * *

“What was that?” Carrie sighed into Mickey’s ear piece.

“What was what?” Mickey murmured into his glass.

“Can we not cruise for bitches while we’re on the clock?” Carrie admonished. 

“I was not cruising, okay? He marked me almost the second I stepped in this bitch,” Mickey replied. “He was starting to burn holes in the suit. I was just putting him on notice that I noticed him noticing me!”

“This bitch,” Carrie sighed again. “He marked you because you’re stomping around the party with all the subtlety of an enraged rhinoceros. Let’s just do what we came to do and not get distracted by junior G-men, please.”

“Excuse me.”

Some things were easier said than done. Mickey could feel the breath of said distracting junior G-man stirring the hairs at the nape of his neck. Mickey took another swig of champagne and turned.

There it was again, that charge that grounded them both to the spot. Ian’s mouth went dry and they were left staring at each other wordlessly for a moment. His mark had blue eyes that raked over his face and left it warming. Soon the smirk was back and reactivating Ian’s synapses.

“Can you show me your invitation, please?” Ian asked with far less authority than he would have liked.

“I can show you anything you want,” Mickey said with a smile and ignored the loud, pained groan in his ear. “Why stop at an invitation?”

Ian ignored the come-on and held out his hand. Mickey shrugged and pulled the envelope out of his jacket’s inner pocket and handed it over. Ian took it, careful to avoid the other man’s fingers and opened it up. _“Mikhailo Milkovich,”_ Ian quickly seared the name into his brain. The invitation looked legitimate, in spite of the bunch of crude, graphic drawings doodled all over it. 

“Got bored on the ride over,” Mickey offered when he saw Ian raise a brow at his artwork.

Ian had to fight back a smile at the insouciance. Now what though? The invite seemed above board and the man hadn’t actually done anything wrong even though he was clearly up to something. Ian toyed for a bit with the invitation, making a bit of a meal of poring over it; unwilling to disengage just yet.

“Oh my god, he’s vibing on you so hard,” Carrie rolled her eyes as Ian’s face filled her monitor. She watched the green eyes darken and saw how they kept being drawn to Mickey’s lips--undoubtedly because Mickey was probably licking them like a sexy meth addict. “Do men just exist in perpetuity with their dicks in their hands? No sense of time or place?”

“Fed, right?” Mickey asked Ian as the latter still fiddled with the invite. He continued even though Ian only stared back silently. “You’re not a cop; cops don’t look like you,” He said as he took in Ian’s black tuxedo. “Junior agent, boring details? You should make hay while the sun shines. I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of time and space to fool around in the bigger leagues.”

“Enjoy the gala, Mr. Milkovich,” Ian said and reluctantly surrendered the invite.

“I intend to,” Mickey purred. “See you later, agent!”

“Subtle,” Carrie said. 

“Whatever; stop hating the game and tell me who the fuck was that?” Mickey said as he swapped out his empty glass for more champagne. 

“Special agent Ian Clayton Gallagher, Chicago Field Office,” Carrie reeled off as she twirled her locks. “Twenty-six years old, two years with the Bureau, completed a few tours; medical discharge. Got himself a degree in Criminal Justice like they all do.”

“Oh, he’s a good boy.”

“I’ll dig up more dirt if you can focus and get this show back on the road,” Carrie cajoled and Mickey took the bait and resumed his assessment. After a while, Carrie chimed back in. “Five-eleven, one fifty-five at last weigh-in, red hair, green eyes…”

“I know that; I was looking at him!” Mickey said, realizing he’d been had. “They got his dick size in there?”

“Finish and I’ll let you know.”

“Fuck you; I’ll find out on my own time.”

* * *

Ian didn’t let Mickey out of his sight for the rest of the evening. He couldn’t have even if he tried; completely magnetized by the most suspicious looking character in the building. Every so often, Mickey would catch him looking and send an irrepressible grin Ian’s way, warming him way more than he wanted to admit. This was about surveillance and nothing else because, clearly, this man was up to something. Ian paused his duty only long enough for a quick bathroom break. When he opened his eyes after washing his overly warm face, his mark was standing next to him, grinning at him through the bathroom mirror. Ian wondered why he wasn’t the least bit surprised.

“Special agent Gallagher,” Mickey breathed. “Gotta nice ring to it.”

Ian grabbed a paper towel to dry his hands and face and then quickly straightened up to deal with his newest nemesis. “Okay, what is your deal, Mr. Milkovich?”

“What? That’s actually your name?” Mickey feigned innocence. “Shit, I was just guessing. I should take it to Vegas this weekend. And call me Mickey. I’ve never even met a motherfucker named Mr. Milkovich. You just felt like a Gallagher to me, you know? The hair, the eyes, the luck of the Irish. I wonder if I can guess your first name?” Mickey appeared to think hard while Ian stared impassively at him. “Seamus? Nah, too on the nose. Aidan? Nope, that’s not right. Ian? Yeah, I’m feeling Ian. Ian Gallagher...am I right?”

Ian stepped closer to Mickey, much to the latter’s evident delight since he did not appear intimidated by the move in the least. It was a mistake, because now Ian felt he was far too close and could smell his antagonizer’s cologne and feel the welcoming heat radiating off him. Still, it would be bad form to back down now. “What is your deal?” Ian gritted out.

“Fine art, or whatever the fuck’s happening out there,” Mickey said flippantly. “Fuck, I love a good redhead,” he said suddenly, catching Ian completely off guard. “Everything’s working for you. You might just be my favourite one yet.”

“Lucky me,” Ian snarked. He didn’t know what was worse--Mickey’s audacity or his own outrageous response to it. He needed to back away, and he took the opportunity to create the necessary distance when they heard someone fiddle with a stall door, trying to get out.

“So what are we doing tonight, Special agent Gallagher?” Mickey asked, undeterred.

“I don’t know, possibly getting arrested for obstructing a law enforcement officer?”

Again, Mickey was unmoved by the threat. “I don’t have a problem being detained--it just depends on who’s handling the cuffs.”

Ian watched curiously as Mickey trailed off and the blue eyes flicked quickly to one side before focusing on Ian’s face again. Someone was in Mickey’s ear.

“Gotta go to another shindig; already running late,” Mickey said, backing away from Ian. “But you stay pretty, Special agent Gallagher. We’ll play later.”

Ian opened his mouth wordlessly as Mickey turned and left. Before he could go after him, Ian was distracted by the chatter in his own ear as the party shifted into another phase. By the time, Ian made his way to his assigned station, Mikhailo Milkovich was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Ian didn’t even bother to eat when he got home, opting instead to just change into his sweats, grab his laptop and settle on his bed to access the Bureau’s database. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when Mickey’s name quickly bore fruit. The man had a rap sheet that was as tall as he was and enough mugshots to fill a coffee table book. That smirk was a hallmark in almost every one of them. Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich was twenty-eight years old, stood five feet seven inches tall, and apparently used those blue eyes with that face to charm, scam and steal from more people than Ian would ever meet in a lifetime. Honestly, Ian could see it happening easily. So what was he doing at the gala, blatantly and unapologetically casing the place in front of a battalion of federal agents and police security? How had he even scored an invite; was it a forgery? Ian hadn’t heard any reports or scuttlebutt about anything going wrong, so he was just baffled. Groundwork for a future heist, perhaps?

As he tried to puzzle out the mystery, Ian continued going through everything the database could offer him at his clearance level. Mickey’s eyes and smirk seemed to remain unchanged as Ian flipped through the mugshots and their associated sordid stories, as if he was challenging Ian to do something about him. Ian’s mind wandered back to the party and to the image of Mickey in his black tux and scent of his cologne. He reached beneath the laptop, adjusted his hardening dick and tried to think dampening thoughts. What the hell was wrong with him tonight?

Mickey had looked expensive and smelt delicious, but he hadn’t fooled Ian for a minute. Mickey was a criminal element and hadn’t belonged at that party anymore than Ian had. The smirk was in his mind’s eye and Ian squeezed himself again as he tried to work out what he needed to do. Was he going to make a report before or after he jerked off to a bunch of mugshots like some sort of deviant. Before he could decide, his bedroom door opened and Trevor walked inside.

Ian had to fight his knee jerk reaction to slam the laptop shut as if he had been trolling deep web porn sites. He reminded himself that he was doing legitimate research for legitimate reasons. That there was a stubborn erection hidden beneath his work computer while a man’s criminal record was displayed before him was neither here nor there.

“Hey!”

“Hi,” Trevor greeted him and dropped a kiss on Ian’s forehead. “You made it back earlier than I thought you would. I figured I could work a little later.” He glanced at Ian’s laptop. “Oh, is this a case? Am I allowed to see all that?”

Ian laughed and rolled his eyes. “This is all public record.”

“You’re going to tell me?”

“Sure.”

Trevor’s face lit up and quickly changed so he could climb in bed next to Ian. At-risk youth were his life calling, but playing criminal profiler was Trevor’s guilty passion. Usually he could only get to do it with tv shows and a chance at one of Ian’s assignments was a true rarity.

“What’s the sitch?” Trevor nodded earnestly and Ian burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” Ian snorted. “Look, I’m just trying to figure out this guy’s deal.”

“He’s kind of dirty hot,” Trevor offered an initial assessment, tilting his head and frowning as he gave one of Mickey’s earlier mugshots a onceover.

“Yeah, well he cleans up pretty well,” Ian replied. “Enough to blend in at the benefit tonight. Well, not exactly blend. He was casing the place nearly the entire time; not even being slick with it. He didn’t do anything illegal, no one raised an alert, but he was just up to something. I needed to do my own checks.”

“So your gut was right, he’s a criminal,” Trevor said, nodding to the screen.

“He was at least. I peeked into his juvie records. He’s been in and out of juvie since he was around eight. Got his first adult charge at seventeen and has been a frequent flier ever since, focusing on scams and theft.”

“Robbery and fraud,” Trevor said. “Love it.”

“The older he got, the more time he spent out between arrests though,” Ian mused. “But his heists and his scams grew pretty hardcore…”

“He was getting better; honing his craft. He’s a master thief, like Ocean’s Eleven through to forty-eight.”

“‘Master thief’, really?” Ian said with another eyeroll. “He’s a scammer. His last arrest was about three years ago and the charges were suspended. Now he shows up at the gala with an invite and not a care in the world?”

“Because he’s one of you.”

“Huh?”

“It’s so fucking obvious, how are you not seeing this?” Trevor scoffed. “He’s been Frank Abagnaled.”

Ian looked at his boyfriend nonplussed for a moment before it hit him. “Catch me if you can…”

“Yeah, he got too good at his crimes and now you guys are making him work for you.”

“That’s why he was being so…” _Arrogant, sexy, impossible, infuriating, hot._ “...open. He was checking for potential security breaches.” And explained why no one flagged him. Those operations were above Ian’s current pay grade and on a need to know basis. Clearly no one thought Ian needed to know.

“Yeah, solved your case in under fifteen minutes,” Trevor gloated triumphantly. “Those amateurs on Criminal Minds need a whole hour. What do I get?”

“For a job well done? More work,” Ian said and minimized the browser to open another. “Want to try and spot irregularities in these dock records with me?”

“Um, no, screw that. Way too sexy for my blood,” Trevor said and rolled out of the bed. “I’m going to make a snack, you want in?”

“Yeah, starving,” Ian nodded and waited until Trevor was safely gone into the kitchen to bring back Mickey’s record.

_“We’ll play later.”_

Ian had to wonder just how well a professional thief and scammer was able to make good on his promises.

* * *

“This seat taken?”

Mickey didn’t wait for an answer as he slipped into the empty seat across from Ian. Not that Ian could have given an answer before Mickey invaded his booth in the quaint and sunny diner in his neighbourhood. Ian’s jaw had been too busy hitting the table to say anything until Mickey was looking over the menu.

“How the fuck did you find me?!” Ian finally managed to choke out. “Are you following me?!”

“Smell the ego on you,” Mickey scoffed. “Just a coincidence, Gallagher. I was passing by and spotted you in the window. Nice place; come here often?”

Ian didn’t believe a single word of that. It had been only a couple days since the gala, and Ian had thought of little else but that face. So much so in fact, that for a wild moment, Ian thought he might have manifested Mickey out of thin air. Fantasies aside, there was no way Mickey materializing in front of him in Ian’s own neighborhood was anything even close to a coincidence. 

“No idea what your deal is, but you can’t case your coworkers,” Ian reminded him. “I don’t care what your criminal background is.”

“Did your homework, huh?” Mickey said and grinned at him, clearly genuinely pleased at the revelation. It was the first smile Ian had seen from him that wasn’t a smirk or a suggestion, and Ian’s traitorous heart promptly tripped all over itself. “I just want some coffee, Gallagher. Not my fault fate brought me here.”

“Fate?” Ian echoed faintly.

“Call it what you want,” Mickey said and then inhaled sharply. “Goddamn I’ve been thinking about you, Gallagher,” he confessed as his voice dropped to a caress. “You’ve been thinking about me?”

Every second of every minute for the past two torturous days. “Look, you seem to be operating under full steam of some faulty assumptions about me, my availability, and my attraction to you, or something. All this is shaping up to be is some weird form of harassment.”

“By all means, enlighten my darkness, Gallagher. Disabuse me of all misconceptions and dangerous notions,” Mickey said softly, turning that absolutely outrageous sentence into the silkiest of come-ones. Mickey’s eyes swept Ian’s body. “You verse, Gallagher?”

This absolute raging sociopath was definitely trying to break his brain. Ian’s mouth could only work wordlessly.

“Nah, you’re not verse; you’re definitely a top,” Mickey mused as he rubbed his thumb across his lower lip. He blithely continued his read. “You probably like to get your button tapped every once in a while, but who doesn’t, right? Works for me, because I’m not really verse either. I’m a situational top if the occasion really demands it like if I’m in lock up or if I need to make a point. Love to take it though. So you see, we work out. You’re ticking all of my boxes.”

Ian was sweating; honest to goodness sweating. He could feel the dampness forming at the nape of his neck and along his lower back. That he could endure. His most pressing problem, however, was that he was so painfully hard, it was choking off all the blood supply to his brain. He was dumbfounded and all he could do for the moment was stare at Mickey in awed disbelief while the other man gazed back.

“Hey guys, are you ready to order or do you...need a minute?” the young waitress trailed off uncertainly as she fell headlong into tension so palpable, it was nearly smothering. The two men were silently staring at each other so intently that she almost turned tail to leave them to it.

“You hungry or what?” Mickey asked him.

Ian gave a slight shake of his head before looking up at the waitress. “I’ll take the usual,” he croaked; his voice thick and his mind pretty much blank of everything but the last things he needed to be thinking about.

“Sounds great, make it twice,” Mickey added. “And one of those caramel frappe things you guys got.”

“I thought you said you just wanted coffee; that’s basically a coffee-scented milkshake,” Ian seized the opportunity to do a little teasing of his own as he tried to regain some ballast.

“What can I say, I like sweet things. I indulge whenever I can,” Mickey said. He paused as the young woman brought his drink and topped up Ian’s black coffee. “What are we doing later, Gallagher?”

“‘We’ aren’t doing anything, Mickey,” Ian sighed but was once again zapped by another killer open smile.

“I like the way you say my name. Can’t wait for all the variations,” Mickey said and then clicked his tongue. “Well, can’t say I’m not a little disappointed, Gallagher, but it’s okay. I had you pegged for a third date lay anyway.”

“Third date?” Ian couldn’t help but ask.

“Yeah, we had the shindig, now we’re having lunch. Next time, it’s a go.”

Ian rolled his eyes so hard, he was surprised he hadn’t dislodged something. “And when’s this alleged third date going to be?”

“I don’t want to make all the moves, Gallagher,” Mickey told him. “So it’s either when fate brings us together again, or if you want, you can just call the shot.” Mickey was distracted by his phone before Ian could say anything. “Fuck, gotta cut this a little short but it still counts, Gallagher.” Mickey took out his wallet, fished out some bills and tossed them down. “Make sure to bring your A-game for next time. I’ve been hyping you up in my head for days. Don’t disappoint me.” Mickey shot him another outrageous smile and slid out of the booth. The man then strode out of the diner without so much as a backwards glance, leaving Ian’s tripping heart and throbbing dick behind.

Ian expelled a heavy breath, tried to regain his balance and tried not to think about third dates, A-games, and great expectations. His body temperature had only just dropped back from fever levels when his boyfriend filled the seat across from him. Ian had completely forgotten that they had arranged to meet up.

“I know, I’m late; I was dealing with a city social worker and a ton of paperwork,” Trevor began.

“Here you go, guys, two blue plate specials…” the young woman blinked when she noticed that Ian had apparently swapped one companion for another in the time the food was being prepared.

“You ordered already? Great, I’m fucking starving,” Trevor said before noticing the half-drunk frappe. “That is fucking disgusting. Since when do you drink that sugar bomb shit?”

“It was actually…” Ian began and thought better of it. “I was just curious, I guess.” He exchanged a glance with the young woman, silently promising her a massive tip if she didn’t wind up ratting him out. She spun away without a further word.

“So anything interesting happen?” Trevor asked before immediately starting to unload the frustrations of his day to a still frazzled Ian. 

For once, Ian didn’t mind the steamroll. Right now, silence was golden.

**TBC**


	2. It was Tuesday

_Rule 0 can still be in play here. Are you really sure you want this problem?_

* * *

Ian had desperately wanted a distraction from the promise of fate and third dates, but Liam’s request was not what he had had in mind. Frank was in trouble again, because of course he was. Being in trouble was Frank’s natural resting state. Still, Liam was upset and anxious, still unable to disengage from Frank the way the rest of the family had ages ago. It’s not like Ian didn’t empathize perfectly. It had been exactly the same way for him with Monica. He had always known better, but he couldn’t escape his painful bond with his mother no matter how hard he tried and much to the consternation of his loved ones. 

He had been on his second tour when he had received word that she had died, and that had triggered a dark spiral that had ended his military career. Ian still struggled with her memory, and he prayed for better coping and survival skills for his youngest brother. At least Monica had had the good grace to finally die and liberate Ian from her special brand of toxicity. Ian doubted they would ever get that lucky with Frank--the man had the longevity of a fallout cockroach and would probably outlive them all just for spite.

Ian assured Liam that he would do his best to find and rescue Frank from whatever shitpile the man was currently entrenched in. Liam was probably the smartest of them all, but there was no reasoning where there was no logic, and the ties that bound Gallaghers together were the most illogical things possible. He eventually hung up with his brother and got ready to head down to the Southside to begin the hunt from Frank’s last known location. He pulled his cap down low over his forehead, stepped out of his bedroom and braced himself for the storm.

“Liam just called me,” he told Trevor, distracting the latter from his television show. “I need to go get Frank.”

“No, you don’t,” Trevor replied matter-of-factly. “You don’t need to do any of that bullshit. You just want to.”

Ian tried not to get baited in these arguments, numerous as they were. He failed every single time because family shit always pushed his buttons, and Trevor had yet to understand why.

“You really think I want to go Frank-hunting? Seriously? Liam is losing his shit and the last thing he needs right now is to get stressed out and distracted worrying about his dad.”

“Liam is supposed to be a genius and he’s getting older. He needs to understand the reality of Frank and move the fuck on, and the rest of you need to facilitate that.”

“‘Facilitate’? He’s fourteen!” Ian shot back. “He knows what Frank is like as well as any of us! Frank is still his dad and he has a bond with Liam he sure as shit didn’t have with the rest of us. You can’t keep telling people to just get over shit like this! It’s like if it’s not gender and sexuality, you can’t wrap your fucking mind around it!”

Trevor was off the couch and on his feet immediately to round on Ian and get in his face. “Fuck you! Between me and your fucked up family, I’m the only one who seems to understand reality. You can’t deal with the fact that I call you out on this neverending codependent bullshit. It’s like the further apart you all are physically, the more fucked up contrived nonsense you guys have to think up to sink back down into Southside shit together! How are you still this ghetto? Fucking let Frank go, fucking grow up, and move the fuck on!”

The alarm bells in Ian’s head told him it was time to disengage before something truly regrettable and irreversible happened. He took a step back from his boyfriend. “I’m going,” he said with finality. “Don’t wait up.”

“I don’t intend to!” Trevor yelled back just before the door slammed shut.

* * *

Mickey nearly swallowed his shot glass when he saw Ian stride into the bar. The baseball cap was pulled down over the red hair and low to Ian’s eyes, but there was absolutely no mistaking Ian Gallagher, even in the piss-poor lighting. It was Mickey’s _Casablanca_ moment, and Ian was his Ingrid Bergman. Of all the gin joints in all of the Southside, Ian had to come walking into his.

Mickey stayed in his dark corner, watching with interest as Ian stalked up to the bar and called the bartender over. Ian looked seven types of pissed off, and Mickey’s first thought was about what had gotten Gallagher that worked up. Well, actually, Mickey’s first thought was to wonder what kind of damage a pissed off Gallagher could do in the dark, but his next thought was concerning the cause of his pique. 

Mickey finished downing the rest of the liquor before him while Ian slipped the bartender a tip and headed out of the bar. Naturally, Mickey began tailing him. What choice was there? Shit, all he had to do was let his body go limp enough and he’d get dragged along anyway by the force of their attraction.

* * *

There were a few quick stops along the way as Ian gathered intel, but eventually Mickey tailed him all the way down to the docks. Mickey blinked as Ian gave a quick glance around and quickly scaled the fence, effectively trespassing. Mickey had a strong suspicion that this was not federal business and Ian was getting more interesting by the minute. Mickey was soon scrambling over the chainlink fence and shadowing Ian into the massive warehouse on the property.

“Frank, where the fuck are you?!” Ian called out impatiently. The warehouse reminded Ian of the one from the _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , with boxes and rooms everywhere--an ideal hideout.

“Ian?” Frank said cautiously and his bedraggled head slowly peeped out from behind a stack of boxes.

Ian rolled his eyes and walked over to him. “What the fuck, Frank? You have Liam losing his shit!”

Frank waved his hands in an attempt to shush Ian and head off his ire. “That was not my intent. I have...encountered some misfortune and I’m trying to assess and best determine my next course of action. Tell Liam everything is fine and there is no real cause for concern.”

“What the fuck did you do? You have gangs after you now? As in more than one?” Ian demanded. “At what point are you going to decide that you’re too old for this shit?”

“Ageism is unbecoming, Ian,” Frank chided.

“Are you two related?!”

Ian pulled his gun and swiveled to challenge the newcomer. The look on his face as Mickey sauntered up, hands raised in mock surrender was priceless.

“What the fuck?!” Ian demanded, lowering the gun in disbelief. “You followed me?!”

“No,” Mickey defended quickly. “Well, yes, obviously, just now, but I was in the Southside long before you were. Why am I even saying anything, you’re not going to believe me,” Mickey sighed longsufferingly. Shoot, he barely believed it and it was true.

“Stop following me, Mickey,” Ian gritted out, flustered by the entire situation and confused about how to feel about Mickey’s unexpected appearance. “I am not tolerating this shit and I will not hesitate to fuck you up!”

“Yes, thank you! I have been trying to subscribe to this newsletter!” Mickey said maddeningly. He smiled slowly at Ian’s purpling face. “Feel free to fuck me all the way up, Gallagher.”

Ian closed the space between them in record time. For a wild moment, not one of the men in that warehouse--Ian included--had any idea if Ian was going to start swinging or otherwise. Mickey seemed more than prepared and willing for any number of possibilities. Ian fisted his hand in the front of Mickey’s jacket and dragged him flush against him, but stopped short of further action.

Mickey actually laughed softly and sucked in his lower lip to bite it. “What are we doing, Gallagher?” he whispered and smirked a little harder when Ian’s eyes darkened and flicked down to his mouth. Still, they stayed trapped in stasis for a moment longer until Frank broke the spell.

“Loathe as I am to interrupt whatever this is,” Frank began, “but just out of an abundance of caution since I am in a bit of a pickle here… Who is this?”

Ian frowned and roughly shoved Mickey away. Mickey remained unbothered and laughed again as he smoothed himself out.

“He’s not here to kill you, Frank,” Ian said. “I think. Mostly sure he’s not here to kill you. Maybe.”

“Forgive my hypervigilance,” Frank nodded to Mickey. “But unless someone’s a fellow Gallagher, I automatically have reservations about their intentions towards my well-being.”

“You’re Frank Gallagher,” Mickey said with growing realization. He then looked at Ian incredulously. “You’re...you’re one of _those_ Gallaghers?! Holy shit, I would have never put that together,” Mickey gasped as Ian gave him a harassed look. “You guys are white trash royalty! And you-” Mickey turned to Frank who looked back at him askance. “-you’re the trash king! Are you his dad?! You helped make this smokeshow?!”

Ian and Frank both grumbled their acknowledgements and clarifications simultaneously and beneath their breaths, but Mickey was too busy stitching it all together to even hear them.

“You mean to tell me you, possibly the greatest coke mule of all time, managed to piss out a Fed, a cop, a councilwoman and like two geniuses. Goddamn, they should study you for science. What does this mean for nature versus nurture?”

“How do you know about my family?” Ian asked tiredly.

“Your personnel files, duh. I understand now why you had the parents section blacked out,” Mickey said and sighed when Ian glared at him. “Don’t be a hypocrite, you did the same thing.”

“Your criminal history, which is all I looked up, is public record.”

“That’s all you looked up because that’s all you have access to,” Mickey reminded him. “Mad at me because you’re brand new and don’t have clearance.”

Frank was starting to feel like a distant afterthought in this warehouse. 

“And is that your service weapon?” Mickey asked as Ian put his gun away.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Ian replied.

“Are you here on federal business? Why don’t you have a ghost gun that they can’t track to you? You’re Southside; you need something unregistered. Suppose a bitch works your last nerve and you have to shoot him?”

“We’re about to find out,” Ian warned and turned his attention back to the long forgotten Frank. “What happened, Frank? 

“An act of benevolence and entrepreneurship gone awry,” Frank sighed and Ian rolled his eyes into the back of his head. Mickey, on the other hand, was delighted and enraptured by his fellow chaos agent. “One of Dre’s minions found himself with an expensive paramore and some quality product that he couldn’t unload because he was forbidden to sell to the target demographic.”

“Dre? Drug don Dre? The Yardies?” Mickey asked.

“That would be the one. His soldier had some narcotics which weren’t very popular with his clients, but were guaranteed to be a big hit a few blocks over.”

“Hector’s turf?” Ian added, piecing it together along with Mickey. “The Maniacs and Yardies agreed not to deal on each other’s turfs, Frank.”

“Correct, they can’t, but I had no such restrictions within their truce,” Frank said.

“You fenced the product on Maniac turf,” Mickey concluded.

“And made a very tidy profit!” Frank added, “enough to make us all happy.”

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose. “So why are you hiding in a warehouse down by the docks while Liam freaks out and half the Southside looks?” 

Frank scrunched his face and spread his hands innocently. “I saw opportunity for further profit and took it, hoping to improve all our fortunes.” He sighed as the two young men looked on skeptically and expectantly. “I borrowed back the product to flip it further to some other motivated buyers, fully intending to reimburse all parties involved at great profit.”

“Got robbed didn’t you?” Mickey asked and Frank sighed forlornly.

“So you lost the product,” Ian sighed again. “And the money?” Ian asked but he already knew Frank had blown it.

“So you stole from the Yardies and the Maniac Latin Disciples and got nothing to show for it?” Mickey asked before turning to Ian. “Well, I’m sorry to hear about the passing of your dad, Gallagher. Anything I can do to make you feel good, let me know.”

“Such a pessimistic outlook,” Frank muttered. “And I believe the old adage is ‘anything I can do to make you feel better.”

“I said what I said,” Mickey said. The conversation stopped when they were alerted to vehicles approaching. The three men shared a look and quickly dove behind the nearest crates just before the door opened and several men walked in.

Dre sighed as he cast an eye over the large, packed warehouse. He was beyond annoyed having to traipse around the Southside looking for this fool, and all over a brick. Still, as always, it was the principle of the thing. He shot a side-eye at his guilty soldier who winced and shuffled a little further away. Dre tied up his long, neat dreadlocks into a quick bun and flexed his neck.

“You sure he’s in this bitch?” Dre asked. This was the third site they had gotten to find Frank and promised to be the most daunting. There was no shortage of places for a rat to hide and give them the runaround. 

Dre’s soldier shrugged. “Intel came from a good place.”

“Frank Gallagher, you in this motherfucker?” Dre boomed out, his eyes scanning for any movement. “I understand you got one over on one of my boys,” he continued, giving the sheepish man another side-eye, “and it is what it is, I’m not salty about it. He’s gonna learn. But you need to run me my money or my shit. You understand?” Dre waited for a moment and nothing but silence answered. “Yo, somebody needs to run mi bomboclaat money before mi get dark in ya today! Mi bout fi rip a bitch’s head off him raass body and piss down the neck hole. Weh mi money?!”

Dre’s soldiers all took a cautious step back from their fuming boss while Mickey’s jaw slackened.

“Charming,” Frank whispered shakily.

“And just like that, you have a rival for my affections, Gallagher,” Mickey whispered to the agent who had been busy scanning the warehouse for a quick egress point. He only shrugged when Ian glared at him. “Well act fast and maybe you can win me back.”

Dre nodded to his men and they were about to fan out and start their search when the doors opened and a number of MLD gang members walked in. Dre was unamused.

“What the fuck is this little parade?”

“Relax, Ziggy Marley, we’re here for Gallagher,” Hector replied.

“Ah, fuck me,” Frank sighed. Was there a neon sign outside the building? How was everyone finding him?

“We’re here for Gallagher,” Dre said.

“No problem, baby; we can do King Solomon's rules. I have no problem splitting a bitch in half,” Hector offered.

“Shut up,” Ian whispered when Mickey turned to say something inappropriate and moronic. “They’re going to start flanking us and searching in a minute,” Ian said, reminding Frank and Mickey of their imminent danger.

“Yeah,” Mickey said as he peeked out from the darkness of their position. He reached into his pocket, pulled out some cut off pantyhose and pulled it down over his face.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Gonna distract them,” Mickey said simply. “Need to do it fast before they spread out. When they’re not looking, take Frank and get out.”

Ian grabbed Mickey as the latter moved to break cover. “Are you insane? What the fuck?!” he whispered harshly.

“Aw, look at you being all worried. The universe isn’t going to let anything happen to us until we fuck, Gallagher. Your dad might not be so lucky though, so get him out.”

Before Ian could yank him back, Mickey shot across to another set of crates with the plan to reveal himself some distance away from the Gallaghers.

“Oh god, he’s legitimately crazy,” Ian said softly.

“Yes, clearly, but should his sacrifice be in vain?” Frank offered.

* * *

“Gentlemen,” Mickey said when he emerged from the shadows to address the gang members. Immediately there was the sound of a dozen weapons being drawn and several red dots appeared on his chest. “You guys have scopes? Really? I know this is Chiraq, but don’t you think this is a little excessive?”

“This the fucker?” Dre asked his soldier and the man shook his head. Even with his features hidden and distorted by the pantyhose, he could tell that wasn’t Frank.

“Now who the fuck are you, and what’s with the funny face?” Hector asked, all guns still trained on Mickey.

“Actually, I was just trying to rob the place and you guys showed up,” Mickey nodded. “But honestly, I’m also a fan, especially of you, Dre. Your expansion through the Yards, just beautiful. I mean yeah, they’re some obvious gaps in your approach and some tightening and trimming to do, but generally…”

Dre lowered his gun and blinked at the newcomer. “What the fuck is it with audacious crackers trying me lately?” he asked the heavens before fixing Mickey with a look. “What obvious gaps?”

Ian and Frank were slowly crawling through the dust and dark towards an exit at the rear of the building. Somehow, not only was Mickey not dead yet, but he was now fielding questions. The last thing Ian heard as he squeezed through the low window after Frank was “and just what’s the problem with my distribution model?!”

* * *

Ian and Frank hit the ground running, with the older man laughing incredulously, unable to believe he had escaped with his skin intact. Ian just wanted to unload him so he could give Liam reassuring news, and get back to helping Mickey.

“That friend of yours,” Frank panted as they approached the bridge. “I approve; you have my most fervent blessings, providing he lives. The other one, way too judgey. This one seems a much better fit.”

“You need to lay low for a while and stay off the streets, preferably out of town,” Ian began but was distracted by the sound of gunfire. “Oh no, oh fuck!” He grabbed Frank and suddenly heaved the man off the bridge just as a garbage barge was passing under. Ian didn’t notice he hadn’t heard a splash as Frank painfully connected with a bed of trash. “Swim to fucking Canada,” Ian suggested as he took off back towards the warehouse.

He had to stop himself from crashing through the nearest door or window to go charging into the firefight. If Mickey was somehow still okay in there, getting himself killed immediately wasn’t going to help out the situation. He ran towards the back of the building while guns continued to blaze inside. He rounded the corner just in time to see Mickey wriggling out of the same opening he and Frank had exited through.

“Hey,” Mickey panted as he got to his feet and brushed himself off. “I’m fine,” he assured Ian quickly as Ian grabbed him and gave him a quick once over.

“How did you… What happened?”

“Um, I may have hit on some sore points between the two factions, and revealed that there may be some turf overlaps in some highly desirable areas.” Mickey’s grin was visible even through the hose. “We should go before they realize what I-”

A shot whizzed by them and Mickey and Ian needed no further incentive to get going. They ducked and zig-zagged as a hail of bullets followed them and members of either one or both gangs gave chase, screaming invectives at them from a distance. They cleared the fence at nearly the same spot they came in and sped off into the cover of the city. They kept running long after the shots and shouting had ended, wending their way through narrow streets and dark alleyways until Mickey finally pulled up and doubled over, panting. Ian slumped against the wall, fighting to get back air into his lungs. Mickey straightened up and pulled the stocking off so he could cool down better.

“You are insane,” Ian told the other man. 

“Please, I’ve talked my way out of worse,” Mickey laughed. “Crazy day for you maybe, but for me, it’s just Tuesday.”

Ian shook his head and laughed in awed disbelief. “Why did you even have the pantyhose?”

“Seriously, Gallagher? No ghost gun, no balaclavas or hose, just your service weapon and a baseball cap. And you came expecting trouble? Either you’re not Southside or you’re the one that’s crazy.”

“Fucking nuts,” Ian insisted, buzzing from the heavy dose of adrenaline. “They could have killed you.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Mickey grinned, “besides, I told you, we’re bulletproof until we fuck.”

“You don’t actually believe that shit,” Ian scoffed.

“Hmm, maybe not,” Mickey conceded, “but you gotta admit, hell of a third date though, right?”

Ian finally straightened up and contemplated the other man and the lopsided grin on his face. “Yeah,” Ian admitted softly, “hell of a third date.”

Mickey shoved away from his wall the same time Ian pushed off his and they crashed together in the middle of the alleyway. Ian fisted his hand into Mickey’s jacket for the second time that night, only this time he followed through with the feeling. He yanked Mickey against him and dipped his head to capture Mickey’s lips with his own. 

The kiss was immediately deep and hungry, both thrilling in the feel of full physical contact after only dreaming about it for the past week. Ian shoved Mickey back against the wall and was on him, one hand twisting into Mickey’s dark hair while the other crept under Mickey’s t-shirt to feel the rapidly warming skin beneath it.

Mickey met Ian’s aggression with his own, reaching up to cup Ian’s face with his hands and pull Ian impossibly closer. They both moaned when Ian ground down against Mickey, hot and hard and demanding. Mickey’s eyes drifted closed as Ian’s mouth nipped and sucked at his ears and throat while Ian all but fucked him against the grimy wall. Mickey was slowly surrendering to Ian’s intensity though and grunted harshly when Ian grabbed his ass and thrust harder against him.

Mickey shifted suddenly and spun them both around until it was Ian’s back pressed against the wall as Mickey slowly and deliberately groped Ian’s straining cock through the rough material of his jeans. When Ian moved to kiss him again, Mickey pulled back.

“You really want to do this here?” Mickey asked thickly. Not that he was averse to it, in truth, but there were options. “I’ve got a place near here,” he offered with an accompanying squeeze of Ian’s cock. As far as Ian was concerned, they should have been there days ago.

* * *

Mickey’s place was a simple motel room tucked away on the edge of the Southside. Ian wasn’t hung up on the details as they stumbled through the door into the dark, for he had more pressing concerns. The moment they managed to shut the door, Ian was shoving Mickey against it and pulling Mickey's leather jacket down just far enough to trap the man’s hands behind him. Ian rolled his hips against Mickey’s, making them both moan into each other’s mouth as the passion reignited and deepened.

Ian released Mickey’s jacket to stroke Mickey’s face, and the latter wasted no time dumping the jacket to the floor to free his hands. Mickey quickly unbuttoned and unzipped Ian’s jeans to free Ian’s erection, while Ian shrugged off his own jacket. If there was any doubt in Mickey’s mind that Ian was the cocky bastard Mickey suspected he was, the fact that Ian broke their kiss just to smugly watch Mickey’s reaction to his dick put that to rest.

“Goddamn, Gallagher,” Mickey exhaled as he ran his thumb up the length of Ian’s cock. He looked up and laughed at Ian’s smirk. “You’re just lucky I love a challenge.” 

He pushed Ian back until the agent was sitting on the edge of the bed. Mickey sank to his knees and measuredly took Ian’s cock into his mouth, making Ian’s breath hitch. Mickey took his time testing his limit, slowly sinking further down the length of Ian’s erection while Ian’s breathing grew raspy and unsteady above him. Mickey found his hard line and gripped the base of Ian’s cock as he began sucking harder and faster. Mickey undid his own jeans and stroked himself as he blew Ian. He moaned around Ian’s cock, making the man shudder and bury his hand in Mickey’s hair. 

Ian threw his head back and groaned wantonly as Mickey did his best to swallow him down. He whispered encouraging, unintelligible nonsense as he gripped Mickey’s hair and snapped his hips reflexively into the wet, welcoming heat of Mickey’s mouth. “Fuck, I’m close.”

He didn’t have to tell Mickey that. Mickey could tell Ian was close from the taste of Ian’s precum on his tongue and the way Ian had his hair in a death grip. Mickey pulled away, ignoring Ian’s whine of protest, and squeezing the base of Ian’s cock to help stave off the inevitable for a while longer. “Were you really going to come without fucking me first, Gallagher? Unacceptable.”

Ian grabbed Mickey, tossed him onto his back into the bed and quickly straddled him. He peeled off his t-shirt while Mickey yanked off his own. They shed the rest of their clothes in record time, and Mickey barely had time to kick off his last sock before Ian was all over him, rutting hard against him, rubbing bare flesh against bare flesh and threatening to send them both over the edge still without getting to the main event.

“I want you on me,” Mickey panted hotly into Ian’s ear as he dug his fingers into Ian’s hips. “You got anything?”

That managed to give Ian pause in the middle of his frenzy. “I wasn’t actually planning on this tonight.”

Fair point. Mickey shoved him off for a moment and shuffled over to the nightstand. He rooted around in the drawer for a bit before tossing a short sleeve of Magnum condoms and a tube of lubricant onto the bed.

“You’re certainly prepared,” Ian said drily.

“One of us had to be ready, Gallagher,” Mickey replied. “I knew this would happen even if you didn’t.”

Ian held the condoms aloft before detaching one. “Oh, so these are for me?” he sniffed as he ripped open the foil packet. “And you don’t just happen to have a pharmacy in your nightstand to support your little Sodom and Gomorrah set up here?”

Mickey relieved Ian of the unrolled condom before he could slip it on and decided to do the honours himself. He knelt in front of Ian, holding eye contact as he slowly and expertly rolled the condom down the hard shaft and felt Ian throb in his hand. “I don’t know what you take me for, Gallagher, but I’m not that kind of girl,” he teased.

Ian fell for the teasing and kissed him again, sliding his tongue against Mickey’s in perfect imitation of the way their hips moved against each other’s. 

“Get on me.”

Ian gripped the back of Mickey’s thighs and pulled forward, making Mickey fall backwards into the bed. He grabbed the lube and squirted a generous amount onto his fingers before easing two coated digits into Mickey.

“Oh, okay,” Ian said, mildly surprised by Mickey’s tightness around his fingers.

Mickey laughed then hissed as Ian’s fingers worked deep inside him. “I told you I wasn’t that type of girl, Gallagher.”

“Yeah, whatever, you’ve gotta fucking drugstore in your drawer, you’re not that type of girl,” Ian scoffed as he settled between Mickey’s thighs. 

Mickey wrapped his legs around Ian’s thighs and breathed out slowly as Ian sank into him. They both tried to control their breathing as Ian rolled his hips gently, giving Mickey time to adjust. He buried his face in Mickey’s neck, breathing deeply and relishing Mickey’s heat and scent as the slow build continued. Mickey stroked the back of Ian’s head with one hand while the other groped Ian’s ass and indulged the slow burn for as long as he could manage. “Fuck me,” he ordered and Ian pulled back just far enough to do just that.

They lost their minds, rocking the cheap bed to its absolute limit as pillows were kicked heedlessly to the floor and hands twisted into sweat soaked sheets while they went back and forth between swearing at each other to moaning sweet encouragement.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Ian warned for the second time and Mickey took immediate action.

“No, you’re not,” he told Ian as he pushed Ian onto his back and climbed on top. “You don’t come unless I tell you to,” Mickey growled, riding Ian hard and fast as his own orgasm quickly built.

Ian gasped and cried out repeatedly as Mickey rocked on top of him while he tried to keep his orgasm at bay. He stroked Mickey’s leaking cock in fast, rough strokes as their tempo splintered.

“Fuck, please,” Ian begged and Mickey, at his own limit, finally gave his blessing. They came together, toppling right over the edge into the abyss.

They lay panting hard after Mickey rolled off Ian and collapsed into bed. Ian glanced over at the man next to him and was rewarded with what had to be the most beautiful and miraculous sight known to man--a flushed, sweaty, absolutely speechless Mikhailo Milkovich.

* * *

Ian lost count of how many times they reached for each other that night, but the next time he woke up in the dark of the room, he was alone. He blinked at the digital clock on the nightstand that was telling him it was almost three in the morning. He hoped to hell it was wrong.

He sat up groggily, worn out and dehydrated, and realized that Mickey had left the motel room completely. He switched on the lamp--which was now a little worse for wear after getting knocked out of place a few times--and revealed his phone, his gun and a note resting on the nightstand.

_“Goddamn, Gallagher,”_ the note said along with a phone number that Ian had to assume was Mickey’s. He checked his phone; the clock was not lying. Fuck.

Ian pulled himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom to take a quick shower. He reeked of sweat, sex, and misdeeds and he needed to wash as much of it off as possible. He squinted against the sudden bright light of the bathroom and took a quick look around after he adjusted. There were a couple first aid kits beneath the sink, and the medicine cabinet was stocked full of bandages, antiseptic and various medical supplies. Ian wondered how often Mickey had had to come there to patch himself up.

He stepped into the shower and blasted himself with warm water while ignoring the urge to grab soap. The only thing worse than coming home smelling like someone else was coming home smelling like a cover-up. 

When he made his way back to the bedroom, he flicked on the lights and glanced around the mostly bare space. Screw it, he was already late, he might as well take a minute to assuage a little of his curiosity. It didn’t take him long to find one of Mickey’s guns strapped to the near side of the nightstand. 

He padded over to the dresser and pulled out the drawers. There were only a few changes of clothes in there and Ian picked up a black t-shirt and sniffed it delicately. It smelled like Mickey and Ian indulged the urge to bury his nose in it. He did resist the temptation to take it. He was already in enough shit as it was without taking home strange, used clothing. He reluctantly put the t-shirt back and went to investigate the closet.

It wasn’t a large closet by any means, but Ian immediately dinged it was far smaller on the inside than what the outside suggested. He rapped his knuckles around the interior until he found the hidden compartment. The duffle bag stashed there had a few items of clothing, another gun, a couple of fake ids and enough cash to help Mickey skip town in a hurry if he deemed it necessary. Ian put everything back as he found it and got ready to go home.

This wasn’t Mickey’s apartment, clearly; but it was his safe house, or one of them, and it did feel like a weirdly intimate thing. He picked up the note and smiled dumbly at the message. He should ignore it, he knew; instead, he saved the number in his phone, slipped the folded note into his wallet and headed home.

* * *

Trevor was startled awake from the couch when Ian unlocked their door and stepped inside. Ian stopped short when his boyfriend sat up, clearly waiting for him and now glaring blearily at him with sleepy expectation. Ian wasn’t sure what to say.

“Found Frank,” Ian offered at length, “things got a little...intense for a sec, but everyone’s okay.”

Trevor sucked his teeth, but didn’t say a word in response. Instead he got up, marched to their bedroom and firmly shut and locked the door behind him.

“Yeah, fair enough,” Ian muttered and crashed on his couch for the rest of the night. He would figure his shit out in the morning. 

**TBC**


	3. Hung Up

_Okay! So clearly you do want this problem. Fair enough. Let’s do this!_

**_Rule 1: Manage your expectations._ ** _This might be for fun, but don’t just wing it because you’re a bird. Clearly define what is expected and appropriate for the situation. Work to keep the mess to a minimum._

* * *

Ian was not going to call Mickey; that was a given. He had lost his mind for a moment--well, all night, but what defines a moment anyway?--and had made a mistake. He wasn’t about to compound his error by chasing after Mickey and blowing up his phone looking for sex, company, or anything else for that matter. He was in a caring, committed, long term relationship that he had no desire to disrupt, and a career that could be easily complicated by getting involved with a wild card asset. It was obvious why Ian wouldn’t be calling Mickey at any point.

What was not obvious to Ian was why Mickey wasn’t calling him. Ian had lost count of how many times he caught himself frowning at his phone, apparently waiting for the inevitable. Mickey had none of the concerns Ian had, and even if he did, Mickey clearly didn’t give two shits about taking unnecessary risks and doing whatever he wanted; so why hadn’t he called?

 _Does he even have your number?_ A small voice of reason questioned. After all, Mickey had left Ian his number, effectively putting the ball in Ian’s court. Still, Ian scoffed at the idea. Mickey had his number. Mickey probably already had Ian’s DNA fully sequenced for such a time that he might need it. That was not the issue. 

Ian figured Mickey would have been overwhelming him after the night they had had together, unreasonably demanding countless rematches. Instead of being relieved that wasn’t the case, Ian found himself weirdly irritated and impatient the longer it took for Mickey to get with the program. He frowned at his phone again as he paced his kitchen. Why wouldn’t Mickey want to see him immediately? It had been the best sex of their lives. 

The small voice of reason reminded Ian that just because it had been the best and wildest night of his life, did not automatically make it true for Mickey. Ian vehemently rejected the notion. It was transitive property, or maybe the law of averages, or Occam’s Razor, or whatever, but if Ian’s world had gotten rocked, then so had Mickey’s--maybe even more so! The point of the matter was, Mickey should have been calling him already so that Ian could politely and firmly reject him once and for all. At least then, maybe Ian could put this whole sordid mess behind him, and he could stop obsessing over motel rooms and magnums and goddamned Mickey Milkovich.

“Ian?”

“Jesus, fuck!” Ian jumped when Trevor laid a hand on the small of his back. “Don’t sneak up on me!”

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you, you weirdo,” Trevor replied. “You’ve been standing in the middle of our kitchen glaring at nothing for like the last ten minutes. What is with you lately? You’ve been so out of it.”

Ian shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, “just...work. Got some shit going down that’s just all kinds of irritating.”

Trevor nodded sympathetically. “You know what I think we both need?” he asked suggestively as he tugged on the front of Ian’s t-shirt. “Maybe we need to distract each other a little from our stressful as fuck jobs,” he said, smiling as he pressed closer to Ian.

Ian returned the smile and pulled Trevor closer. “You could be right. I sort of thought you were still mad at me from the other day.”

Trevor shrugged it off. “I’m over it now. So how about it; you wanna be over me?”

* * *

The last time Ian checked, Trevor was great at blow jobs. At the very least, he was pretty decent at them. Ian wasn’t entirely sure what was happening now, but something appeared to have shifted. He looked on studiously as Trevor made their sheet bob up and down as Trevor worked assiduously beneath it. Ian was hard, but not nearly all he could be, and what was worse he could feel himself losing interest and getting distracted. He chided himself and tried to keep it together because he needed to be present and in the moment. The very last thing Ian needed was his own brain complicating his sex life.

“Hey, Gallagher.”

Ian closed his eyes in defeat because if it was one thing he should have learned by now was that his brain could not be trusted. One would think one’s mind would have one’s best interest at heart, but no. What happens instead, is that one’s mind produces an apparition of his erstwhile lover to stand by one’s bedroom window to look on judgmentally and offer unsolicited commentary while one tries to get it on with one’s boyfriend.

“Man, he has to work to get a rise out of you, huh?” Mickey observed. “Can’t relate, but I respect the hustle.”

Ian put his hands over his face and groaned deeply, making Trevor’s head pop out from beneath the sheet. “Everything okay?” Trevor asked.

“Yep, it’s fine; just my brain breaking,” Ian said with surprising honesty.

“Oh, okay, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“He really shouldn’t.” Mickey shook his head sadly as Trevor disappeared back under the sheet. “Jesus, how long has he been down there? This is starting to feel like a war crime.”

His brain wouldn’t even tone down Mickey’s infuriating assholery for a fraction, because of course it wouldn’t.

“I mean in all fairness to the two of you.” Mickey continued, “it’s not like you can tell him to suck it like Mickey, and it’s not like he’d even know how. I bet the guy I’m with right now is way happier than you.” Ghostly Mickey grinned when Ian finally glared at him. There was simply no ignoring your own brain. “What are we doing, Gallagher?”

Why couldn’t he have just closed his eyes and imagined a Jonas brother? Ian wondered to himself as Mickey joined him and an unwitting Trevor in bed. Why couldn’t he even fantasize like a normal person any more? Still there were some benefits to an imagination like his own. He swore he could feel the heat from Mickey’s hand as it trailed down his chest, and could smell Mickey’s scent as the man sucked on his ear lobe. It was a complicated and messy way to get his fire going, but it worked wonders. Now all Ian had to do was concentrate on not saying the wrong name.

* * *

“That was amazing,” Trevor sighed. “Bit of a shaky start but an exceptionally strong finish.”

“Yeah well, they don’t call me Ian 'exceptionally strong finisher’ Gallagher for nothing,” Ian laughed as Trevor snuggled against him.

“But seriously, is everything okay? I thought you were going to tap out on me in the beginning there.”

Why wouldn’t everything be okay? They were only three years into what Ian guessed would be a lifelong commitment and he was already completely forgetting who he was meant to be fucking. For a vain minute, Ian had tried to make it a fantasy threesome, but that had crumbled to dust almost instantly. Even in dreams of Ian’s own creation, Mickey was an all-consuming force and his boyfriend had been reduced to a sacrificial vessel whose face surprised Ian when the fantasy had come to an end.

“I told you, it’s just work,” Ian told him. “It takes a little while to get out of the zone sometimes.”

“I’m totally going to be an FBI widow one day, aren’t I?” Trevor teased. “If it’s like this already. You get way too wrapped up in your cases.”

“Yeah? Look who’s talking. Who eats, sleeps and breathes their job like you do?” Ian teased back.

“Yeah, but you know my shit’s actually impor-” Trevor quickly cut himself off when he realized what he was about to say, but Ian had already caught it and tensed up.

“Because fuck national security, fighting corruption, and enforcing the law, right?”

“How’s the track record on that going?” Trevor snarked before backpedaling a little when Ian’s eyes went glacial. “I’m not coming for you guys and I know _your_ intentions are good. It’s just that I don’t tend to have a lot of faith in many of the American institutions originally established as oppressive, subversive forces that, quite frankly, haven’t done much to rehab their images.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you serious right now?” Ian said exasperatedly into his hands. “Trev, this is literally the career I’ve chosen and love, and I just want to have one thing I care about that you don’t find some way to condescendingly shit all over.”

“I am not shitting on your career, Ian! I support you one hundred percent, but choosing to be a part of something doesn’t magically change the fact that it might be deeply problematic!”

“I know, Trevor, I know!” Ian said as he got out of bed. “You’re not the only one who has been to school, you’re not the only one with some level of social awareness. I know everything is awful and terrible and poisoned. We should just burn everything to the fucking ground and there’s no point trying to change anything from the inside. Fine, I get it. Would it kill you to just hold your nose and pretend you’re okay with any of the decisions I make for myself?!”

“You’re being so fucking melodramatic right now, it’s not even funny,” Trevor shot back. “No one can call you on any of your shit without you turning into a wounded victim. It’s fucking pathetic sometimes!”

Ian took a breath. “I’m going for a walk. Maybe while I’m out there, I’ll find a crusade that you think is worthy.”

“Seriously, you’re just going to storm off again like a fucking child,” Trevor sneered while Ian yanked on his clothes. “This is what you always do rather than engage. We’re adults, Ian. We can have these discussions without going nuclear every single time.”

“Talk to yourself; I’m fucking tired,” Ian told his boyfriend and stormed out. Trevor could only shake his head in disbelief and flop back onto the bed. To think, the evening had started out so well.

* * *

Instead of a walk, Ian had taken a drive to cool down. It wasn’t until he parked that he realized where he really was. That he was back in the Southside was one thing, but parked in the motel lot right outside Mickey’s safe house was another.

“Fuck me, this is not a good first instinct to have,” Ian admitted to himself. What’s worse, the motel room showed no signs of life which made sense since Mickey probably only used it for emergencies and clandestine hook-ups with faithless simpletons. Ian smacked his head on his steering wheel a couple times and sighed. He really needed to get his shit together.

* * *

It had now been several days since their night together at the motel. Ian still refused to cross that line and call the object of his reluctant affections. Instead, Ian found himself vacillating between irritation at Mickey’s inattention and worry that something might have happened to the other man. He might not have been willing to reach out, but that didn’t mean Ian couldn’t do some digging into the mystery that was Mickey and his whereabouts. This is how Ian found himself knocking uncertainly on the office door of his senior supervisor. Senior special agent Thaddeus Fowler looked up and nodded for Ian to come inside.

“Galahad,” Agent Fowler greeted warmly, “how’s it hanging?”

Ian smiled back at his supervisor. Fowler’s nicknames and endless bad puns could drive his team up the wall most of the time but Ian was oddly fond of them. “I had a question regarding the gala surveillance we did a couple weeks back. Or rather, I needed to clarify something regarding my debriefing report.”

Fowler nodded to the empty chair and Ian took a seat. “What’s up?”

“I left something out of my report and I was sort of going back and forth on whether it was the right call or not,” Ian began. “I had an...encounter with a guest there--a Mikhailo Milkovich?”

From the way Fowler’s eyebrow shot up in recognition and curiosity, Ian realized he was about to either hit paydirt or fall face first into a pile of shit. He chanced it and continued his story.

“He didn’t seem to quite fit into the surroundings; I felt like he might have been casing the place. I intercepted him and checked his credentials, and he seemed to be in the clear. I looked him up afterwards and found that he had an extensive criminal history, but then given how obvious he was being, I figured he was probably one of our assets? I left it out of the report, but now I’m second guessing if that was the right course.”

Agent Fowler’s face lit up in a wide, white grin. “Fricking A+, Galahad, that is some killer instinct. You marked Mickey? He almost never gets marked, and never by a junior agent. I knew I was right about you, and I do love being right.”

Ian’s beamed at the praise. If there was anyone in this organisation he wanted to impress, it was Thaddeus Fowler--the man who had taken a gamble and accepted Ian into his team. Ian might have had an honorable military discharge, a degree, and glowing recommendations in his arsenal, but the reality was that his mental health history could have easily precluded him from consideration from the Bureau. Fortunately his application and assessment had crossed Fowler’s desk and the senior agent had had a good feeling. The vast majority of Fowler’s team and subordinates were selected on Fowler’s gut instinct and the man had the clout to do it. Fowler hadn’t been wrong yet, and the last thing Ian wanted to do was break the chain. 

“He’s one of ours,” Agent Fowler confirmed, “one of mine if you want to get specific.”

And that was when Ian knew he had hit pay dirt. Fowler might have been the picture of cool containment, but the man loved to tell a story to a captive audience.

“One of yours?” Ian prompted.

“I had been chasing that boy around since he was about, what, fifteen? That’s when he first started pinging our radar,” Fowler laughed and pointed to his salt and pepper hair. “A lot of this grey? Milkoviches, Mickey specifically. He was the toughest nut to crack.”

“Really?”

“That kid was determined to become some kind of Bond villain, I don’t even know. I kept trying to turn him while he was still local and before he ended up in Interpol’s crosshairs. Ambitious little shit. Finally caught him slipping a few years back and let him know it was the Federal Bureau or Federal prison. He finally started making some good decisions at that point.”

“You think he’s been fully reformed?”

“Shiiiiit, I would never go that far,” Fowler laughed, his fondness for his adopted charge evident. “He’s sticking close enough to the straight and narrow to keep me happy, but he’s that kind of Southside, you know. You can probably relate, Ian. Tough background, rough upbringing, all that hustle energy. It can be hard for guys like you and Mickey to get out of that survival mode where it’s just fight or flight all the time; always working the angle. You cracked the code,” Fowler nodded approvingly at Ian, “Mickey’s a work in progress, but he’s doing good.”

“How is he as an asset?” Ian asked, trying to keep his questions light despite curiosity burning him up. “I don’t know much about that side of operations.”

“You might, if that’s how your career develops. Mickey actually became an excellent asset once he got the right handler. He still gives the occasional heart attack, like a few days ago, he gave his handler the slip and missed his flight to Cali and caused a minor panic. Ended up catching a red-eye flight that night instead for reasons he didn’t feel like sharing. He might be late, but he always shows up; I’ll give him that.”

Ian was hit with the realization that he was probably the delay that made Mickey late.The realization made him weirdly fluttery. “What’s in California?”

“Tech show,” Fowler said, “and no one has called to scream bloody murder at me yet, so I assume it’s going well. That’s the thing with cyber security and fraud assets, they have to be constantly on the go, learning the next new thing. The crimes evolve by the minute; we have to try and keep up.”

“Aren’t you a little worried this is just more training for supervillainy?” Ian joked.

“A chance we have to take, my man,” Fowler admitted. “The best men for the jobs are the ones who were always beating the system in the first place.” Fowler paused for a while to think things over. “It’s fine you didn’t make a report this time and your gut is good. All the same, moving ahead, you come across something anomalous, raise an alarm, make your report. Better to be safe than sorry, you know. Still, really good hustle there, Galahad.”

Ian nodded and eventually excused himself when he had run out of reasonable questions to ask, and Fowler had done regaling him with a few more stories. He had gotten what he had come for. Fowler, on his end, laughed softly to himself after Ian left his office. Clarification on debriefs, his ass. Still personal motivations aside, as fishing expeditions went, Ian was a natural and charismatic interviewer. Fowler made a note to himself to help Ian start figuring out his way forward. That kid could prove to be a great investment.

* * *

It was the last day of Mickey’s tech expo and Ian had driven himself a little crazy with the unexpected return to high school algebra. If a plane leaves Los Angeles for Chicago at 9 pm travelling non stop at five hundred and fifty miles an hour, what time should Ian expect his phone call? His teachers had warned him that he would need this stuff in the real world one day, but who could have believed it? Was Mickey even getting on a plane that day, or was he busy getting worshipped by some nerdy stealth Adonis who had been dazzled by the arrogance and fast talk?

Ian was scrolling through the M-names on his phone behind Trevor’s back while they lay cuddled on the couch. He nearly dropped the phone on the back of Trevor’s head when the message from Mickey finally popped up. _“My spot, twenty minutes,”_ was all it said but it was enough to get Ian’s heart pounding.

“What happened, what’s wrong?” Trevor asked as Ian sat up abruptly, dislodging him from atop Ian’s chest.

“Getting called in,” Ian told him, the lie coming a little too easily, but the way Ian saw it, it would be the last one anyway.

“Did something happen?”

“No, probably not,” Ian reassured hurriedly as he pulled on his shoes and shrugged on his coat. “It’s fine, I’m sure. Probably something stupid. I’ll message you when I get the chance, and I’ll probably be back before you know it.”

“O-okay...be careful,” Trevor called after him as Ian headed out the door. “I love you.”

“Uh huh,” Ian returned and the door closed firmly behind him.

* * *

He was there to break up, Ian reminded himself before he got out of his car. It wasn’t even breaking up really, but rather stopping something before it turned into something more. His heart had not slowed down since it started racing and he took a moment to try and center himself and get his game face on. A few minutes later, he realized he wasn’t going to be any better off than he was right then and stepped out of his car to head into the motel. He barged into the room to find Mickey leaned casually against his dresser, scrolling through his phone looking at only god knows what. 

Mickey looked up when Ian came and tossed the phone onto the dresser behind him. “You’re late.”

 _He_ was late? “Fuck you, I’m late,” Ian snapped. “You’re lucky I even showed up here. First of all, I’m not some dog you can just command to show up whenever you fucking feel like-”

“Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up, Gallagher.” Mickey ordered before he closed the distance between them and pulled Ian into a kiss.

Ian’s response was immediate and starved. He crushed Mickey to him, both hands groping Mickey’s ass through the soft material of Mickey’s sweatpants while Mickey bit at his lips and tried to get Ian’s jacket off. They broke apart long enough for Ian to shrug off his jacket and Mickey to peel off his tank top.

Mickey grabbed the back of Ian’s neck and pulled him back into another searing kiss while Ian frantically pulled down Mickey’s sweats and underwear. “Take your pants off,” Mickey panted against Ian’s lips as he undid Ian’s jeans.

Ian broke their kiss again to shove Mickey backwards into the bed and made short work of pulling off his own t-shirt and stripping off the rest of his clothes. Mickey barely managed to shuffle back against the pillows before Ian was on him, hot and hard and demanding. Mickey gasped audibly as Ian kissed and bit his way down the column of Mickey’s throat down to his chest; his teeth grazing over one of Mickey’s nipples, making him moan and thrust against Ian’s body. 

Ian settled between Mickey’s thighs and hummed his own pleasure as he took Mickey’s cock in his mouth. He upped the pressure as Mickey’s fingers twisted in his hair, sucking harder and faster while Mickey’s body trembled from the pleasure. He ignored Mickey’s warnings and kept swallowing Mickey down, taking him in almost to the hilt until Mickey erupted hotly into his mouth. He gazed up at Mickey and held eye contact as he slowly licked Mickey softening cock clean, keeping the latter mesmerized.

“Fuck, Gallagher,” Mickey said shakily, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”

Ian said nothing, just crawled back up to Mickey and kissed him deeply, making the man taste himself on Ian’s mouth and leaving them both breathless. “Get on me,” Mickey ordered softly as he ground upwards against Ian’s hard cock and squeezed Ian’s ass suggestively. Ian reached for the side table drawer which had been replenished with an abundance of magnum condoms and several new tubes of lubricant.

“Fuck, you’re optimistic,” Ian laughed.

“Failure to plan is planning to fail, Gallagher,” Mickey told him. “And something tells me we can burn through all of that real quick.”

Ian dropped the first condom on Mickey’s chest, a clear indication that he wanted Mickey to do the honours of putting the condom on him again. While Mickey opened the packet, Ian was already pushing lubricated fingers into Mickey and working deftly and deeply inside him until Mickey’s entire body flushed with pleasure.

“You’re gonna fuck me hard?” Mickey purred into Ian’s ear as he rolled the condom slowly down Ian’s cock.

“I’ll fuck you any way I want to fuck you,” Ian replied and shoved Mickey flat onto his back.

It wasn’t the hard pounding Mickey had been anticipating right out the gate. Instead, Ian buried himself slowly and deeply inside him until Mickey felt filled and stretched beyond measure. Ian’s body covered his completely and Ian’s face was in his neck, whispering sweet nonsense into Mickey’s ear while Ian stroked his face. The tempo was slow and searing, overwhelming Mickey and roasting him from the inside out while Ian ground his hips against Mickey’s in rhythmic circles and Mickey dug his heels into the back of Ian’s thighs, demanding more. 

The tempo built steadily as Ian’s ability to hold back eroded. Mickey gasped and cried out his name each time Ian’s cock found his prostate. The sound of Mickey’s voice, the constricting heat around Ian’s cock and the feel of Mickey’s hands on him all conspired to rob Ian of his self control and soon they were fucking hard and fast they way Mickey had intended. Fast and furious, Mickey could understand and handle. Soft, slow and searching was just dangerous. Mickey laughed breathlessly between harsh grunts and groans while Ian slammed into him. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you call me?” Ian heard himself demand as his orgasm approached the edge.

“They sent me to L.A.,” Mickey gasped back as he dug his fingers into Ian’s hips. “Didn’t know you’d get so salty about it. Why the fuck didn’t you call me then?” 

“Fuck you!” Ian choked out as he came hard, arching into Mickey before collapsing gracelessly on top of him.

“Fuck you too,” Mickey laughed. He gently bit Ian’s shoulder as Ian finished shuddering through his release. “Fucking weirdo.”

* * *

Mickey had been right to chance erring on the side of caution with his condom purchases. They hadn’t finished them, but they did make a significant dent in the number. Each time Ian woke up, he half expected to be alone in bed, but apparently Mickey had no planes to catch any time soon. This time Ian awoke to find himself with his head on Mickey’s chest while the latter half sat up in bed, laughing at some nonsense on his phone and playing idly in Ian’s hair.

The gentle ministration lit up the pleasure center of Ian’s brain like a christmas tree. He stayed still, feigning continued sleep so that Mickey wouldn’t stop and he could relish the feeling a while longer. He cuddled closer, absorbing as much of Mickey’s scent as he could. He loved the way Mickey smelled and swore he could get high off it if he tried. He wished he could have him without the sweet artifice of the cologne Mickey always wore.

Mickey laughed softly at something again, and the rumble went from Mickey’s chest straight to Ian’s dick. Ian tried to suppress arousing thoughts. He did not want to get turned on; right then all he wanted was to lay there being soothed by Mickey’s warmth and scent while Mickey played gently in his hair. His feint lasted a while longer until Mickey switched up and started stroking his hair instead. The moment Mickey’s hand slipped down to the bare skin of Ian’s neck, the resulting shiver of Ian’s body told Mickey his companion might be awake.

“You up, Gallagher?” Mickey asked, and just as Ian had feared, the softness and gentle affection stopped immediately. Ian made some sleepy, noncommittal noises in response as if he hadn’t been awake for the last ten minutes. He did finally open his eyes properly and blinked in disbelief at what appeared to be the dim light of dawn filtering through the motel windows. Had he been with Mickey all night?!

“Oh shit,” Ian whispered.

“Your phone’s been vibrating like a sex toy for a while now,” Mickey informed him. “Got somewhere you need to be, Gallagher?”

“Oh fuck,” Ian groaned. Trevor must have thought they were under some new terrorist attack by now. He rifled through his discarded clothing and found his phone--so many missed calls and freaked out messages. The first hard hit of guilt finally connected painfully with Ian’s gut.

“Jesus,” Ian sighed and quickly fired Trevor a voice note while Mickey looked on with interest. “Hey, everything’s fine, everything’s okay. We’re wrapping up here and I should be home soon, okay? Don’t worry, it’s all good… Love you,” he mumbled quickly and hung up.

“Sounds like you do have somewhere you need to be,” Mickey said lightly.

Ian ran a tired hand over his face and started to pull on his clothes. Every time he got near Mickey, time warped and fucked him over. It was only going to keep happening the longer he let this continue. He needed to do what he had planned to do in the first place. “I can’t do this.”

“‘This’ being…?”

“This, us, I just…” Ian sighed heavily and tugged on his t-shirt. “I have a-, I’m in a-, I have...I have a boyfriend.”

“And I have one hand in my pocket and the other one’s giving a high five,” Mickey replied. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

Ian looked at Mickey a touch incredulously. “It’s a serious, committed relationship.”

“It took you like three tries to get it out, but that’s neither here nor there,” Mickey said. “It doesn’t fucking matter, Gallagher. It’s just fucking.”

“Yeah, I doubt my boyfriend would see it that way.”

“I don’t recall inviting him to the conversation,” Mickey replied. “Gallagher, come on, you’re cooler than this. Don’t be that guy.”

“What guy would that be?” Ian asked drily.

“The guy who can’t fuck around more than a couple times without it having to mean something and it being a big deal,” Mickey explained. “It’s fucking! It’s a couple of hot bodies mashing together for a minute. It means nothing. You don’t have to start fretting about the little wife at home. Us banging is no different from having some dude spot you at the gym.”

“What the fuck kind of gyms are you going to?” Ian scoffed.

“Well, okay, I guess technically this would fall under cardio, but come on. We’re just having fun.”

“Yeah, it was fun, but it was a mistake, and I’m ending this before it becomes more of a thing than it already is,” Ian told him.

“A mistake?” Mickey echoed.

“That first time after we helped out Frank, it was just adrenaline and craziness and I was all pissed off and keyed up from earlier. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“Ah okay, and last night into this morning? What was that, the long kiss goodnight?”

Ian rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, the feel of Mickey’s fingers still lingered there. “I don’t have an excuse for last night, alright. It was good, you’re good, and maybe if it was another time or another place-”

Mickey rolled his eyes hard and the cutting action actually made Ian trail off. It was the first time Mickey had expressed open irritation with him and Ian was surprised by how hurtful he found it. 

“Look, I made a commitment, alright? I’m just trying not to be the asshole who fucks around on his boyfriend and has to lie and sneak around constantly. I shouldn’t have let any of this happen, and I’m sorry if I ended up hurting y-”

“Oh my god, Gallagher, say less. You’re fucking boring me with this bullshit right now,” Mickey said and scratched the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “What exactly do you want to happen from this point forward?”

“Don’t call me for this anymore,” Ian said simply, wilting a little under Mickey’s blank, unblinking gaze.

“What the fuck else would I call you for?” Mickey said coldly. “You want this to end? Fine. Block my number and lose it. That way you don’t have to worry about temptation anymore. Seems simple enough. Now fuck off before my eight o’clock gets here.”

Ian found himself dumbfounded by the easy callousness and watched with no small amount of awe as Mickey emotionally shuttered and dismissed him completely. He was shaken out of his stupor when Mickey looked up from his phone a short time later with a clear look of ‘why are you still here?’

“Right, right,” Ian mumbled and did another quick check of the room for any more of this belongings before he stepped out and headed for his car. “Could have been worse,” he muttered to himself as he started his car. 

Another car pulled into the lot near to him and Ian wondered if that was Mickey’s next visitor or if the man had just said it to be devastating. It was a young family making a stop on their road trip, and Ian was genuinely tempted to hang around to see if Mr. Eight o’clock was real. Ian pulled out of the lot instead and made his way back to Trevor and wondered how good Mickey was at taking no for an answer. 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Agent Fowler were to ever come alive on screen, my Sega Dreamcast for him would be President Obama, ngl. They have the same corny, but super cool energy. Even the cadence works. I think he'd be down for it too. Make it happen universe!


	4. Of Ice and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm home sick, so early chapter! I hope you enjoy.

**_Rule 2: Respect the main._** _Remember you’re the side dish, not the entree; so don’t be a habitual line-stepper. Don’t be shady. Don’t be disruptive. Don’t be “accidentally” showing up at playdates, and don’t be blowing up the phone during family_ _time. Your thirst trap can wait until later. Damn._

* * *

Mickey didn’t call. Ian didn’t know what he had expected. A week ticked by and there hadn’t been so much as a butt-dial from Mickey’s end. Ian knew he had no right to be as acutely disappointed and upset as he was; it was the heights of hypocrisy. He had made his situation crystal clear and had said in no uncertain terms that he did not want Mickey reaching out to him for hook-ups. He just never expected Mickey to actually be respectful of his directives.

Ian slouched listlessly at the back of the elevator as he made his way from the basement parking lot to his floor. The doors opened on the cafeteria floor to reveal the last person he expected to see--Mickey Milkovich in all his sweater-vested glory, smart work tie, pressed pants and all. A preppy Mickey was an entire mood and no one could have possibly appreciated it more than Ian Gallagher in that moment.

Mickey’s eyes swept over the occupants in the elevator before stepping inside and made fleeting eye contact with Ian. That was all it took for the lightning bolt to strike and discombobulate Ian and there was never getting any use to it. Surely it was mutual, Ian wondered to himself. A connection that powerful that ground him to the spot must have the current flowing both ways. He couldn’t feel all of that only for Mickey to feel nothing, right? But as Mickey swept the elevator before stepping in, there was no spark of recognition in the blue eyes, not even a split-second lingering glance. Instead, Mickey gave the occupants a wan smile and stepped inside. The elevator emptied as they approached Ian’s floor, and soon he and Mickey were the only ones left to get off.

“Umm, so…?” Ian hazarded, and Mickey had to be the greatest actor alive, because the other man’s reaction of mild surprise and bemusement was precisely that of someone being engaged by a total stranger in an elevator. 

Ian trailed off awkwardly as the doors opened onto his floor, and both men stepped off. Ian watched curiously as Mickey strode straight to Fowler’s office without sparing Ian a second glance. Ian headed to his desk and had just settled in when Fowler yelled for him. Ian didn’t waste a second hesitating, and found Mickey seated comfortably in Fowler’s office still pretending Ian was invisible.

“Galahad, I wanted to formally introduce you to Mickey,” Fowler explained as Ian stepped into the office. “Thought I’d make it official after your run in at that little soirée the other day. Ian Gallagher, Mickey Milkovich; Mickelback, this is Ian Gallagher, the junior agent you let mark you,” Fowler teased.

“Galahad,” Mickey greeted drily.

“Mickelback,” Ian retorted.

“What?” Fowler said defensively, sensing he was somehow being made fun of. “These are good, solid nicknames. You should feel honoured by my lameness,” he huffed and turned a stern eye to Mickey. “So, game plan for Dubai?”

Mickey groaned long and loud in protest. “Really? Really?! You made me put on Bureau drag and haul my ass all the way down here to talk game plans? You act like I’m going to start World War Three every time I get on a plane. I don’t need to discuss ‘game plans’ with you for every assignment, and even if I do, couldn’t this have been an email?”

“Like hell you don’t need to discuss plans with me,” Fowler replied, “when you stop doing shit like missing flights and disappearing into the Southside streets, maybe we won’t have to huddle up before every game.”

“I told you I had something important to do,” Mickey huffed. “I handled my business and I got to L.A., no harm no foul.”

“Aht aht, no harm, no Fowler,” the senior agent grinned complete with finger guns.

“Oh my god,” Mickey wilted.

As surreal as it was hearing himself being referred to as business Mickey handled, what was even more amazing was hearing Mickey edit himself in real time. Clearly, the Mickey who punctuated his sentences with F-bombs and curses was a stranger to Fowler and it was fascinating to see. Mickey was no less animated however.

“Look, shelve the attitude so we can have a proper discussion,” Fowler ordered, “we gotta keep things smooth.”

“Do you really have nothing better to do? Don’t you think I have better shii-stuff to do today?”

“We’re flying you out to Dubai with all the bennies. Boy, do you know how much this shit costs? The American taxpayer-”

“I could have been reading up on oil barons-”

“Three hundred dollars for a toilet seat-”

“You keep thinking I’m gonna cause some international incident-” 

“Accountability is the cornerstone-”

“You cause one small three-alarm fire-”

As incredible as it was watching the two men yell incoherently at each other, Ian knew he really couldn’t justify his rubbernecking much longer. He gave a general nod to the room as Mickey and Fowler kept arguing, and reluctantly quit the scene.

* * *

Ian had given up any and all pretense of trying to get any work done. Instead, he kept his eyes glued on Fowler’s office where the senior agent and Mickey had eventually settled down and started conversing like normal, somewhat well-adjusted people. Ian squinted at the pair, wishing with all his heart he had learned to lip read, and clicked his pen neurotically as tried to guess their conversation.

“Gallagher, will you knock it off?” Agent Maria Hernandez sighed from her adjoining desk. Usually being directly across from Ian was a pleasant experience for a number of reasons, but every once in a while, she was reminded why open plan offices were hell.

“Huh? Oh, sorry,” Ian muttered and dropped his pen. His attention was quickly pulled back to the scene. Mickey had stood up, apparently to stretch his legs, and went to lean against the wall of Fowler’s office. Ian’s eyes followed him with laser focus and Hernandez didn’t miss a beat of it.

“So how’s Trevor doing?” she asked lightly.

“Huh?”

“Trevor, you know Trevor. White boy, brown eyes, about five-six, kinda has hair ala Justin TImberlake circa the 2000s?”

“Yeah, I know what my boyfriend looks like, Hernandez, thanks,” Ian snorted even as his attention was returned to the office. Mickey and Fowler were laughing easily at something, and the laugh was transformative, lighting up Mickey’s features in a way that made Ian’s chest constrict. “He’s good; never better,” Ian muttered.

“Uh huh,” Maria sniffed delicately. “You guys wanna come over soon? We can have a couples’ game night.”

That was enough to grab Ian’s attention for a few seconds. “Is that really a thing people really do? Game nights and dinner parties?”

“Fuck yeah it’s a thing if you’re a yuppy. We live in a society, Ian; gotta strengthen those bonds before they break,” Maria nodded. “I bet me and Jeremy could beat your ass at Clue.”

“Sure,” Ian laughed, “I’ll run it by Trev and we’ll work it out.” He trailed off as he noticed Mickey slipping on his messenger bag and heading out of Fowler’s office. “I’ll be right back-”

“Uh huh.”

“-I gotta go, um, go do a thing,” he said vaguely.

“Take your time,” Hernandez said, “go figure out those bonds.”

* * *

For a shorter guy, Mickey was incredibly fast. He couldn’t have had more than a thirty second head start on Ian, but by the time the latter skidded to a halt in front of the elevator bank, Mickey was nowhere to be seen. Ian quickly scanned the elevator displays and surmised that there was no way Mickey was on any of them, with some only just arriving while the others were too far away for Mickey to have slipped on one in the time he had. Ian looked around and his eyes landed on the door to the stairs. Would this idiot really straight-up run away from him? He shoved the heavy door open and peered down from his landing. There was Mickey heading down the steps a floor below.

“Hey, asshole!”

Jesus jumping Christ, Ian was fast, Mickey thought to himself. The junior agent had the instincts of a bloodhound, and if Ian wasn’t a shining star in the Bureau’s Fugitive Task Force within a few years, Mickey would buy a large hat and eat it. Mickey paused his futile escape and let Ian catch up to him.

“What?”

“Really? Really?!” Ian demanded. “This is how you’re going to act? This is how you’re going to be? You’re just going to act like I don’t exist on this planet?” Ian fumed and all Mickey did was raise a “so?” eyebrow at him. “We fucked like sixteen times,” he whispered sharply to an unimpressed Mickey. “You can’t just ignore me!”

“Technically, we fucked twice in a couple of multi-session nights,” Mickey enlightened him, “and you’re the one that said to ignore you.”

“I said don’t call me for hook-ups, not act like we’re the leads in _Ghost_ ,” Ian said. “Gay people can’t go around completely ignoring everyone they’ve ever slept with, Mickey. The economy would collapse.”

Mickey had to fight hard to bite back a bark of laughter at that bit of idiocy. Instead he rubbed at his nose and fixed Ian with a look. “Look, Gallagher, me and you can only exist in one of two states: fucking or non-fucking. If we’re not fucking, then I’m not obligated to give a single shit about you.”

Ian sighed exasperatedly. “I explained my position-”

“And I explained mine, and _you_ came to the decision that our positions were mutually exclusive, so I don’t even know why we’re having a conversation right now,” Mickey said irritably. He sighed as well and searched Ian’s face. “What the fuck do you want, Gallagher?”

It was a good and valid question. Ian knew he had no business detaining Mickey and would be better served to let the man go on his way. “We...we might have to work together one day; we’re from the same place. We can be cordial, at least. We can be friendly.”

Mickey’s eyebrows crashed into his hairline. “Cordial? Friendly?! Do I look like some kind of emotional support animal to you? Fuck your friendly feelings and take that shit home to wifey. That’s what he’s there for anyway and I’m not-”

In Ian’s defense, kissing Mickey was most likely the only non-violent way to shut him up once he got a full head of steam going. It was also reassuring how easily and eagerly Mickey reversed course and leaned into it too. Mickey wrapped his hand in Ian’s tie and pulled him closer until Ian had him pressed into the wall. 

“Fuck!” Ian said suddenly as he abruptly broke away from Mickey. He was red-faced and flustered. “I can’t. I told you that I can’t. I have a-”

“Stop, just-” Mickey began softly and reached for Ian again.

Ian’s resistance crumbled instantly and a moment later he had Mickey pressed into the wall once again, desperately tugging up the button-down shirt beneath Mickey’s vest so he could feel the heated skin beneath it. Micky groaned at the contact and reached between them to grope Ian’s erection and feel the powerful shudder ripple through him. They jumped apart at the sound of one of the stairwell entry doors squeaking open beneath them and the emerging gaggle of voices from below spooked Ian.

“No,” he said, backing away from a now thoroughly disheveled Mickey. “Just...fuck.”

Mickey wiped a hand over his face as he watched Ian’s hasty retreat. He huffed softly to himself and tried to pull himself together before he left the building.

Ian, on his end, quickly found the nearest bathroom stall and firmly secured the door behind him. He covered his face with both hands and low-screamed into them. What the fuck was wrong with him? What was he doing? What had he just been about to do--fuck Mickey in the public stairwell of the FBI building in the middle of the freaking workday? He prayed to any god listening that Mickey was leaving the building and stepping right onto the next flight to Dubai. The further apart they were, maybe the saner he would be.

* * *

“So we are about to answer the question for the ages,” Trevor began gravely while Ian looked on, amused. “Is truffle popcorn really worth the hype?”

“It is the question that has haunted mankind for centuries,” Ian agreed and shuffled to the end of the couch so Trevor could stretch out next to him. Trevor handed Ian the giant bowl of gussied up popcorn and plopped down next to his boyfriend. They both palmed a handful of the snack while Trevor navigated Netflix.

“It’s so good.” Trevor declared.

It’s alright,” Ian said noncommittally.

“You can be such a weird food snob sometimes,” Trevor laughed and stretched out against Ian, grabbing another handful of popcorn from the bowl on Ian’s lap.

“Because I happen to be an excellent cook with amazing taste, and I’m not a slave to trends.”

“Whatever, snob, just shut up so I can figure out this serial killer’s deal.”

Ian simply smiled and draped a hand over Trevor to rest it on the reclining man’s chest. This was good, Ian thought to himself. This was completely fine. This was exactly what he needed--solidity, stability and sanity. This was what a good, normal, perfectly acceptable relationship was like, Netflix and chilling on a quiet evening instead of tearing through the Southside, trying to escape a hail of bullets.

He dropped an affectionate kiss on the top of Trevor’s head and Trevor squeezed his hand in response. This was fine. This was contentment. This was...fine. Ian just needed to take a breather and a step back to truly appreciate the blessings he had been about to jeopardize. Trevor smelled really nice too after all. Different, yeah, not necessarily in the pheromone-fuelled, organic chemistry, primal attraction kind of way, but still nice. Human beings evolved from all that Neanderthal shit for a reason.

This was what Ian needed in his life. Trevor was what Ian needed to be happy and grounded, and to keep the ship steady. The best couples were going to plateau sooner or later, and even that was good. Fire and the heat it brought were dangerous and ephemeral and could still leave you cold in the end. Ian just needed to get his mind right and enjoy this moment in time with his amazing boyfriend, free of any dangerous distractions.

The sudden glow of his cell phone from the arm of the couch caught his attention. He had silenced the phone to focus on the documentaries, but in the dark of their living room, the light felt like a beacon. Trevor was too enraptured by the escalating murders of a decompensating criminal to notice.

Ian’s heart started thumping before he even picked up the phone to confirm his suspicion. It was a message from Mickey bearing an image about which Ian could already guess. There wasn’t an agent alive that would allow for images to automatically download, and not a boyfriend around who would allow previews on locked screens, no matter how blameless of a life he led. Consequently, Ian had to open his phone, careful to keep it out of Trevor’s field of view, and hover hesitantly for a second over the download image prompt.

He clicked and a moment later there was Mickey’s erect cock, filling Ian’s screen and grasped firmly in Mickey’s grip. The picture bore no identifiable markings, since Mickey’s untattooed thumb was the only finger fully visible, but Ian could pick Mickey’s cock out of any line-up easily. Ian quickly cleared the screen and put the phone back on the arm of the couch face down.

The phone may have been face down and silent, but Ian was now attuned to it and saw the soft glow of another incoming message, then another, then another and Ian raked his nails over the thigh of his jeans trying to block them out and focus on the criminal profiling and truffle popcorn. This was good; it was fine. He just needed to avoid distractions.

“Need a bathroom break,” Ian told Trevor, handing him the popcorn and sliding out from underneath him. 

“Want me to pause?”

“Nah,” Ian said as he grabbed his phone. “Keep watching. I’ll be right back and you can catch me up if I missed anything major.”

* * *

Ian closed and locked the bathroom door before slumping heavily against it. He expelled a breath, counted to ten and opened his phone as he wondered if he could just delete all the messages in one fell swoop without going through them. The answer was no, he couldn’t. He went through the messages sequentially, downloading each attachment with bated breath while sweat prickled at the back of his neck.

The first few messages were images, standard dick pics where Mickey was careful to leave out anything that could pinpoint his identity. The angle shifted for the next few pictures, surprising Ian as they opened. There was Mickey naked and spread eagle in a bed Ian didn’t recognise, his head shrouded in darkness, but the body unmistakable. 

The tattoos had been removed from the fingers gripping the hard shaft, which meant Mickey had sat down to painstakingly edit the images for the express purpose of torturing Ian. The next message had Mickey on his knees in the strange bed, legs spread, face away from the camera with his hand reaching back to finger himself. The next message was a video.

“Fuck you,” Ian breathed shakily as Mickey’s measured breathing filtered into Ian’s bathroom. Ian rested the phone on the sink and leaned over it as he unzipped his jeans. “Fuck you,” he hissed as he stroked himself while Mickey’s breathing grew ragged and louder from his phone. Ian matched Mickey’s rhythm as the latter rocked back against his fingers and moaned brokenly in the video.

He moved faster when Mickey did, slowed when Mickey slowed, subconsciously falling in sync and once again into a world where Mickey controlled everything unequivocally. Ian hadn’t had a decent orgasm since that last night in Mickey’s motel room, and his climax overtook him just as Mickey was stifling his own with a pillow.

“Fuck,” Ian panted softly as he braced over the phone and the video ended. He had only caught his breath when another message came in.

 _“Did you cum?”_ Mickey asked him from halfway around the world. Another missive quickly followed. _“Dumb question, right? I know I made you cum.”_

Ian ignored the gloating as he set about cleaning himself up and the bathroom counter. 

_“What are we doing, Gallagher?”_

The question gave Ian pause and he picked up the phone, staring hard at the message.

_“I know you’re reading this. Don’t make another mistake, Gallagher. Tell me to fuck off now and I promise we’re done.”_

The silence seemed to stretch on interminably while they both waited for the inevitable.

_“Friday, 9:00pm, my spot. Don’t be late.”_

* * *

“Jesus, I thought you fell in,” Trevor murmured as he sat up so Ian could resume his spot on the couch. “Is it the lamb going in on you?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“We have got to stop eating at Papageorgio’s. Food’s amazing, but it fucks us up way too much,” Trevor said. 

“Yeah.”

“Ugh, I say that now and catch us two weeks from now,” Trevor yawned, “don’t even know why we try to resist. We suck at fighting temptation.”

“Yeah, we definitely do.”

* * *

The door was locked. Ian blinked in disbelief at the motel door. He wasn’t even late, but the door remained stubbornly shut and the room appeared dark and silent from what he could see. Ian fought the temptation to kick the door in and turned to leave in disgust,

“I was thinking of standing you up,” Mickey said when Ian spun around to almost collide into him. “Thought about making you sweat it out and maybe giving you the runaround a little bit,” he continued as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “But fuck that. I am not in the business of cutting off my own nose to spite my face. I need to get my pipes cleaned.” He grinned at a glaring Ian and slid against him suggestively as he headed to the door to open it. “Come and get it.”

* * *

Ian’s fingers dug deep into Mickey’s hips as he closed his eyes and lost himself in the welcoming heat of Mickey’s body. He ran a hand up Mickey’s back, not stopping until his hand was tangled and fisted in Mickey’s dark, unruly hair. He yanked back, pulling Mickey up and flush against him so he could sink his teeth into the sweat-slicked skin of Mickey’s shoulder and wrap a firm hand around Mickey’s leaking cock. Mickey would have been scandalized if he wasn’t so gone. This was decidedly not docile service top behaviour.

“Goddamn, Gallagher. I should get you pissed off more often,” Mickey gasped as Ian tugged at his ear with his teeth and swiped a thumb over the slit of his cock.

“You made me wait,” Ian whispered hotly into Mickey’s ear. “I told you not to call me, and then you still made me wait.”

“Shit yeah,” Mickey laughed then hissed as Ian drove deeper inside him. “But I’m that bitch worth waiting for.” He laughed again as Ian buried his face in his neck and crushed him close, already knowing Ian’s tell that the man was about to come and trigger Mickey’s own release. “Yeah, you know that’s right.”

* * *

“Man, am I glad you came,” Mickey quipped as they lay in bed trying to cool down and catch their breaths. He looked over mischievously at Ian. “So how’s the wife?”

“No,” Ian replied shortly and Mickey only grinned at Ian’s pique.

“Listen,” Mickey said as he sat up, “you may not have said shit, but you made a decision,” he said as he turned to look Ian in the eye. “This is on; we’re happening. So make your peace with it, because I have got no time or patience for any will they/won’t they, back and forth, indecisive bullshit. You find yourself feeling remorseful? Square your conscience on your own time. When we’re together, we’ve got fucking to do.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow, clearly inquiring if Ian had any questions or any points he needed clarified. Ian only rolled his eyes and Mickey figured that was the closest they would get to binding non-verbal contract. He smirked as he rolled off the bed to raid the mini-fridge--he was parched. He tossed Ian a can of beer and they both drained their drinks before saying another word.

“Where’s the rest of the video?” Ian asked out of the blue and Mickey burst out laughing in surprise.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Mickey snorted. “You think I kept that shit on me in the motherfucking UAE. That shit was ‘burn after reading’, immediately.”

“If you were brave enough to record it, why not be brave enough to keep it?”

“Yeah, real cute. I’m daring, not crazy,” Mickey sniffed before fixing Ian with a knowing look. “Really got you going, huh? What, want it to spice up date night with the wife?”

“Okay, first of all, let’s just not call him that,” Ian said irritably. “And secondly, let’s have a rule where we don’t ever mention Trevor.”

Mickey swallowed his swig of his second beer and eyed Ian quizzically. “What the fuck’s a Trevor?”

Ian thought Mickey was kidding for a moment, but then the look on Mickey’s face shook his certainty. “Trevor? My boyfriend? Are you serious right now?”

“Am I serious? You’re fucking with a dude named Trevor?” Mickey asked incredulously. 

“Like you didn’t know.”

“I told you, that aspect of your life was of zero interest to me,” Mickey told him. “Jesus, though, Trevor? Shit, no wonder it took you so long to remember his name.”

Ian threw up his hands. “What the fuck is wrong with his name?”

“Trevor? Nothing, nothing at all. It is totally unobjectionable like tap water, or skim milk,” Mickey mused. “How much art or poetry out there do you think was inspired by a fucker named Trevor?”

“You know what, fuck you, you know nothing about him or how inspirational he is, okay,” Ian said. “And I’m literally in the middle of establishing the rule that we don’t talk about him ever and you’re already breaking it. I thought this part of my life was irrelevant to you.”

“Shit, you don’t have to care to have questions, Gallagher,” Mickey pointed out. “You shouldn’t have mentioned his ridiculous name.”

Ian’s phone chirped before he could retort. It was his warning to wrap things up and head home. He settled with flipping Mickey off and went about gathering his things to get tidied up and dressed.

“I gotta admit, you got me curious, Gallagher,” Mickey said as he watched Ian get dressed. “What is the continued allure of a milquetoast bitch named Trevor?" 

“‘Milquetoast’? All that based on a name, huh?” Ian snorted. “What’s the matter, getting jealous already?”

Mickey didn’t bother dignifying that with even an acknowledgement. “What is it? Is the sex fire?” he queried as Ian looked heavenward. “Nah, you come at me way too hot to be getting it good at home.”

There was a warning spark of anger in the green eyes Ian leveled at him. “I told you to shut the fuck up about him already and I meant it. Us doing this does not mean you get to profile and talk shit about my relationship.”

Mickey took a measured sip of his beer as he gazed at Ian above the can. He knew full well he had found a sore spot and was more than willing to drill into it.

“What does Trevor have to do to get you going, Gallagher?” Mickey asked innocently, dropping Trevor’s name like it was an invective. He ambled towards Ian with heedless ease, despite the danger radiating from the other man. “I bet he has to do all kinds of crazy shit just to get you started, huh?”

“Mickey…”

“I just gotta know, was it ever easy or did you have to get creative from day one? Who do you picture when you’re fucking him?” Mickey’s lopsided grin grew in proportion with the heat emanating from Ian. Wherever there was a thin line, that was where Mickey chose to build his house. “Or is that why you give up and just let him fuck you because it’s so much less work?” He breathed sharply when Ian’s hand twisted in his hair.

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” Ian gritted out. 

Mickey wet his lips in anticipation and reached between them to slip his hand inside Ian’s boxers to grope him. “I bet he’d lose his shit if he ever knew how easy it really is, if he knew what you are really like, and how you get when you really want it.”

He let Ian throw him back roughly onto the bed and gave himself a few quick, hard strokes as Ian divested himself of his boxers yet again and crawled in after him. He took Ian by surprise then, flipping Ian on his back and quickly straddling him. He confiscated Ian’s phone and tossed it to the far side of the bed.

“Fuck you and little fucking alarm,” he groaned as he ground down against Ian. “I tell you could leave? You’re on my time now.”

* * *

Ian stood quietly for a moment staring down at his sleeping boyfriend. Trevor had passed out face down on top of a bunch of case files, the lights in their bedroom still on. Ian set about gingerly liberating the files, clearing the bed and tucking the heavily slumbering man in. Trevor barely moved the entire time and it wasn’t until Ian slipped in bed that he stirred groggily.

“Jesus, what time is it?” Trevor rasped. “What’s going on?”

“It’s late,” Ian answered, “go back to sleep. It’s fine; I’m here.”

Trevor only sighed sleepily and shifted closer to curl around Ian and promptly fell back to sleep.

Ian didn’t sleep. He spent the few small hours left until morning staring up at the ceiling, trying to sort through the snarled tangle in his brain. This was fine, he reminded himself. This was where he was supposed to be. This was who he was supposed to be; who he was supposed to be with. Mickey could say all the nonsense he wanted, calling his relationship in question. At the end of the day, Mickey, with all his fire and chaos, was an ephemeral fantasy that would burn out soon enough. Ian knew better than most the importance of keeping track of what was real and what wasn’t. All he had to do was keep it all straight until the flames died down.

**TBC**


	5. Turn Tables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regularly scheduled programming. Rule 2 governs this chapter as well. Happy Valentine's Day!

“I need to get down to a chub bar at some point; find someone who can worship and appreciate me right,” Trevor sighed heavily to his best friend while they assembled care packages on the floor of his office.

“That sentiment will never not be wild to me,” Alexis Alden said and shook her head, causing some of the blonde strands to fly into her mouth and stick to her tongue. She sputtered and tucked the strays into her messy chignon. “You are with literally the hottest guy on the planet, why would you need to go anywhere? Ian is a god.”

“And that right there may be the problem, for what do the gods know about worship?” Trevor pointed out, “they only know how to be worshipped, not do it themselves. I need a boost, Allie, and Ian is just way too checked out to even try, so maybe I should go and find the least sweaty bear out there and give him a little thrill.”

“Not for nothing, I would love it if you found a way not to sound like a total asshole about big dudes, Trev,” Alex rolled her eyes as she searched for the deodorant pile.

“What are you talking about? I think they’re the greatest things ever.”

“Ohhh my god, that’s not the way. They’re people, Trev, not props for mood management,” Alex chided.

“Alex, it’s just us here so you can turn it down a little,” he told her, “I’m all for political correctness and sensitivity up to the point where they hit against the immutable wall that is social reality, okay? Plus it’s not like the arrangement isn’t mutually beneficial. We all get something out of it--I get some serotonin from someone who’s eager to please and he gets to be with someone who doesn’t trigger a reading on the Richter Scale or break into a sweat trying to change his mind.”

“Fuck you very much, Jesus, Trevor!” Alex gasped and tossed a toothbrush at his head. “Way harsh, even for you!” 

Trevor sighed, “yeah, I guess, sorry. I told you, I’m just out of sorts lately.”

“Because of Ian? What’s going on with him?”

“He’s been such a ghost lately, even when he actually is at home,” Trevor complained. “He says it’s work and maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. It just takes so much fucking energy to keep him engaged and, fuck, I need engagement too! Shit, he might even be all for the chub bar. I took him there once when we had just started getting serious and he was all emotionally constipated over his mom’s death.”

Alex blinked incredulously. “You took Ian on a chub club crawl?”

“I thought it would help. Usually works for me.”

“How...how did that go?”

Trevor shrugged. “He got some sloppy top and then wept like a baby in the other dude’s arms for the rest of the night. Should have been cathartic then at least, right? But he was still weird for a while after that.”

“Yeah, dude, I heard dead mom pain tends to linger for a bit,” Alexis laughed. “Oh my god, you’re so lucky that you have me and that I get your whole deal. Look, most of the people in our lives now did not grow up in the emotionally distant, winter wonderlands we did. The whole ‘get over it, carry on, stiff upper lip’ shit tends not to play so well with the normies.”

“It really should though. He’s like a minefield sometimes, or a walking bruise. Say one wrong thing and he’s all huffy and taking off. It’s almost better that he's distracted all the time lately.”

Alex finished one package, set it aside and started assembling another. “You guys are having a rough patch, happens to the best of us. You just need to communicate better so that it doesn’t turn into a whole thing,” she advised. “Check it, here’s what you need to do when you go home later.” She closed her eyes and got in the zone. “Ian, while I love and appreciate that you’re fresh from the shower, I’m going to need you to put your insane abs away and get dressed so we can engage in meaningful dialogue.”

“I feel you’re always on Ian’s side no matter what because you low-key wanna fuck him,” Trevor said drily.

“Absolutely nothing low-key about it,” she clarified. “I love you like brunch, Trev, but I would climb your boyfriend like a handi-accessible tree and just apologise to you later.”

“Your honesty is brutal yet refreshing,” Trevor snorted. “And how is all this excellent advice serving you and your torrid relationship?”

“Again, fuck you very much,” Alex said, flipping him off. “As soon as I find a man who isn’t gross and defensive about the fact that I once had a bigger dick than he does, it will be a one and done deal. I’m a vicarious relationship expert.”

“Uh huh.”

“Just swallow your pride and talk to Ian about how you’re feeling, Trevor,” she instructed once again. "It would suck if the two of you ended up more married to your jobs than each other. And no chubby chasing, either, okay? You shouldn’t have to go outside your relationship to get that kind of fulfillment. If you do, then you know you’re in some real shit.”

* * *

Mickey knew Ian was awake; could tell from the shift of his body and the change in his breathing. Gallagher was a cuddler and a physical affection sponge, and was apparently perfectly willing to fake sleep indefinitely on Mickey’s chest as long as Mickey kept playing with his hair, stroking his face or doing whatever soft, dumb thing Mickey felt like doing in the moment. 

He smiled at the top of Ian’s head and twirled some of the red hair around his finger. Mickey found that he was fine with the deception, and didn’t mind playing along for now. Occasionally he’d lightly rake his fingers over Ian’s bare skin or stroked a special spot and would then revel in the satisfaction of Ian’s visceral response. It could really be some of the softest things that could make you feel the most powerful. It was the trilling of Ian’s phone that shattered the moment. Ian sighed heavily and answered it.

“Gallagher, you remember we’re on flower van relief duty, right?” Hernandez asked him.

“We have got to get more creative with our surveillance vehicles, but yeah, 1400 right?”

“Yeah and you’re on the deli run, so use your creativity there,” Hernandez said. “And don’t be stingy; mama’s hungry,” she warned.

“All you guys do is pig out on these stake-outs and act like you don’t know the Outfit already knows you’re there,” Mickey pointed out as Ian rolled off him and sat up on the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, but then you know...overtime,” Ian replied. “Plus you never know when they might get careless. Stranger things have happened to give up intel.”

“Point taken,” Mickey yawned and checked his phone. He watched it for a moment and snorted his amusement at whatever was on it. Ian observed from the corner of his eye. Mickey maintained frequent contact with someone--someone who never failed to make him smile or laugh. Maybe it was a family member, Ian reasoned, or Mickey’s handler. Ian tried to shut out other possibilities.

“You heading home after this?” Ian asked after Mickey put his phone down.

“Yeah, got to sort some shit out and hit the road again.”

“Heading Northside? I could give you a ride,” Ian said breezily and Mickey just laughed.

“Oh Special Agent Gallagher, I do love how we think we’re slick,” Mickey said. “You don’t need to know where I live.”

“Why not? Is it terrible?” Ian guessed. “Some sort of hoarder situation? Twilight posters all over your bedroom wall?”

“Tell you what, how about I take you home after you take me home?” Mickey offered and grinned when Ian rolled his eyes. “What’s with the burning interest in my living situation? Motel rooms not good enough for you?”

“You don’t have to care to have questions, right?” Ian reminded him. “I’ve been trying to cut down on my Southside exposure,” Ian said as he tugged on his clothes. “I’ve been told it’s bad for me.”

“Huh, wifey tell you that?” Mickey scoffed but then raised his hands in mock surrender when Ian’s chin lifted. “Let me rephrase, did a valued loved one tell you that? What’s so wrong with the Southside?”

“I need to be thriving,” Ian quoted his boyfriend. “The Southside is all about surviving and I need to break out of that mentality.”

“Well that’s a load of horseshit,” Mickey said. “The Southside is a big place, and I know plenty of motherfuckers thriving in this bitch.”

“You probably have a different definition of thriving,” Ian offered.

“Yeah, I bet.”

“I can understand the point of view sometimes,” Ian continued. “Not a lot of positive stuff has happened to me here.”

“Define positive. Look, a lot of people love shitting on us and the lifestyle, especially assholes who aren’t even from here. You think you’d be half as tough and half as good at what you do if you didn’t get put through the wringer here first? Besides, what good does it do forgetting where you came from, no matter how shitty it was? It doesn’t make you any better; it just makes you an asshole.”

_ “Exactly!” _ Ian wanted to yell. But try telling that to some people. Still, it was nice to play a mild version of devil’s advocate against someone who seemed to share his reasoning. “I mean you can kind of understand why he feels that way though. What’s the point of me getting caught up in Frank’s bullshit for instance?”

“You were doing it for your brother, not your dad,” Mickey countered.

“Uncle/step-father, actually,” Ian murmured but, yet again, Mickey didn’t hear or heed the correction.

“I mean I’m a huge fan, but by all means, fuck Frank with something hard and sandpapery. Him and my dad can get fucked with satan’s pitchfork all day everyday,” Mickey said firmly. “We aren’t talking about dads, we’re talking about family. You don’t turn your back on family, neither the blood ones nor the ones you choose. It’s common sense and decency, and practical self-preservation.”

“Self-preservation?” Ian echoed.

“Fuck yeah, real family? You do for them and they do for you,” Mickey said as he finally got off the bed and got dressed in his casual uniform of a pair of dark sweats and a tank top. “When shit goes sideways, when it gets real dark, you’re gonna need real family to help you hide the bodies, dump the coke, and burn the evidence.” He lit up a cigarette and gave Ian a look. “Real family will do that for you, but you gotta be willing to do it too.”

“Real dark, huh?” Ian murmured. He had encountered real darkness more often than he cared to remember. Ian would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it more than once; getting into some really bad shit and making that panicked call home to Trevor. He could never convincingly imagine Trevor getting down and bloodied with him. He was sure Trevor would convince him to do the right thing, the sane, moral, sensible thing. It wasn’t the outcome he wanted, but wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? “Really shouldn’t be in a situation to be hiding bodies though,” Ian pointed out.

“Yeah, but we have already been irreversibly stained and corrupted by our sorry upbringings, Gallagher,” Mickey teased with a shrug. “Gotta have those deplorable contingency plans. Just don’t buy into the respectability bullshit. The Feds try it with me sometimes, but then they’re the same ones pulling for my Southside connects. There is nothing wrong with holding on to some ghetto, at least that shit makes sense at the end of the day.”

Ian could not agree more. He smiled at the back of Mickey’s head and decided to quit the game there. He checked himself that he had all his belongings. He then headed over to Mickey and grabbed the man, turning him around to face him. “Are we going to hang out later?” he asked softly.

To say Mickey was surprised was an understatement. He expected Ian to get handsy all he wanted during sex--that was a given--but outside of that was another thing. It was early days in their arrangement, but Mickey had his own strict code of conduct and Ian was already running roughshod over almost all of it. Outside of playtime, he wasn’t into the manhandling and he hated being crowded. It was obvious that Ian was no respecter of personal space and Mickey was baffled as to why that didn’t annoy the hell out of him immediately.

“Hang out?” Mickey scoffed softly.

“Call it what you want,” Ian recalled teasingly and his grip on Mickey’s hips tightened and he somehow managed to press closer.

Quiet alarm bells went off in the back of Mickey’s head. Sure, he wasn’t annoyed now and the eager puppy schtick suited Ian like a tight t-shirt, but Mickey knew he needed to curb this behaviour. Ian’s confidence and ease around him was growing exponentially, and if Mickey didn’t handle it soon, the soft, tentative questions would eventually end and the demands would start instead. Mickey didn’t take demands from anyone--well, not unless under threat of federal imprisonment.

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be after work, Gallagher?” Mickey reminded him. He’d rein Ian in soon enough, just...not right now.

Ian ignored the rude reminder of his real life and slipped his hands beneath Mickey’s tank top instead. “Are we hanging out after I get off or what?” he repeated. 

Ian wasn’t crazy, right? He wasn’t imagining the way Mickey’s eyes would soften for a moment before they raked over his face as if Mickey was trying to puzzle him out. Mickey seemed to do it whenever he allowed Ian to get physically close enough to him, and Ian needed no more incentive to brave Mickey’s potential ire and invade his personal space. It had to mean something good. The look never failed to turn Ian inside out, and something good almost always followed.

“I’ll be here anyway. If you want to stop by, fine,” Mickey said dismissively. Ian’s widening grin belied Mickey’s efforts of aloofness.

“Oh, so you were just going to hang out here anyway?”

“Fowler hates when you’re late; just so you know,” Mickey said.

Ian closed the last bit of the gap between them and pressed his lips softly against Mickey’s. Mickey hesitated a second before letting Ian in, letting the kiss grow and deepen until he found himself stroking Ian’s face while Ian held him in place. This is why Mickey hated slow. It was either boring, as it usually had been in the past, or it was confusing and disconcerting, a new aspect that Ian had introduced. Yet another reason Mickey was going to have to regulate this better...at some point. The kiss finally ended, but Ian stayed pressed against Mickey, cradling the man’s face and smiling dopily at him.

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” Mickey snapped irritably, but Ian wasn’t bothered. He had gauged Mickey’s tolerance for that kind of physical affection pretty accurately.

“We’ll play later,” Ian told him and Mickey rolled his eyes as Ian made his happy exit. Mickey definitely needed to curb this nonsense...some day.

* * *

Trevor came home to find a towel-clad Ian in their bedroom, freshly showered and readying himself to go on-duty.

“Huh, this is so weird, Alex kind of predicted exactly this,” Trevor chuckled.

“What, me showering? I do it pretty often,” Ian replied.

“It’s a weird story, nevermind,” Trevor shook his head. “Do you have a minute to talk about something?”

“Do you mean like a literal minute or a minute-minute?” Ian asked. “I’ve got a surveillance beat and I have to pick up the team’s deli order. Hernandez will a hundred percent go full Donner Party on us if there isn’t enough food. Oh, and I’ll be later than usual; pulled overtime again.”

“Oh great, more overtime,” Trevor said sarcastically. “Isn’t that just awesome.”

Ian sighed and pulled on his jeans. “Overtime is what happens when you don’t have the manpower required to cover the man-hours needed, Trev. At least mine is assigned and duly compensated. You do just as much overtime and it’s pretty much all voluntary and oftentimes gratuitous.”

“Gratuitous?! You know what, not trying to have a fight right now,” Trevor said. “It’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about, and you’re kind of right. We have been insanely wrapped up in our jobs and I think we’ve been neglecting each other too much. I was thinking we can both maybe dial it back a little at work and maybe put in some more time here.”

Ian was unenthused at the prospect. Putting in more time at home sounded like code for increased passive aggression and criticism about his life choices. “It’s not like I can just tell Fowler to take his OT and fuck off, Trev. You know it’s not that easy. Plus, the money is good.”

“Oh fuck off with that,” Trevor said exasperatedly. “The fucking money is good, like we’re here scraping by on food stamps. Every time you say that shit it sounds so fucking-”

“Ghetto?” Ian finished helpfully. “I’m sorry, I forgot we had already evolved beyond the need for money after capitalism was abolished. Slips my mind all the time.”

“We’re not millionaires, obviously, but we’re okay, Ian,” Trevor said. “This perpetual hustle you appear to be on is ridiculous sometimes. You have  _ ecstatically _ done about a thousand hours of overtime over the past couple of months and I don’t know what you’re trying to prove with this.”

“What’s to fucking prove, Trevor? I have student loans--we both do, we have bills, we want to buy a house, a vacation outside of Chicago would be nice. All of these things require money, so I’m sorry I can’t sustain myself on self-righteousness and superiority.”

“This is all we do lately, Ian. We’re either talking about nothing, barely engaging, or we’re fighting,” Trevor said. “It’s fucking exhausting, okay? All I’m saying is can’t we just work on us a little bit more. We love each other, yeah, but we still like each other, right?”

Ian sighed and tried to lower his hackles. “Yeah, of course we do.” He stepped around the bed and came to cradle Trevor’s face. “It’s just that…” he hesitated and sighed. “You know what, you’re right; we’re doing too much,” he admitted. “I’ll see what I can do with work. We’ll work on it, I promise. I have to go now, though.” Ian said and stepped away.

Trevor nodded, a little surprised that Ian hadn’t thought to kiss him, either as a goodbye or as a seal to their promise. Still, at least it was the start of something.

* * *

Ian was heavier than he looked. Mickey had started to realize it lately, since Ian no longer had the decency to get the fuck off him after they’d come. Instead, Ian remained comfortably sprawled atop him after their collapse and molded his body to Mickey’s so he could do unnecessary dumb nonsense like nuzzle Mickey’s neck, nip at his shoulders and run his hands over Mickey’s body like Ian owned him. 

By right, Mickey should have been shoving or elbowing him off, but it hardly seemed worth the hassle. Ian was heavy, but the weight was oddly comforting, and the caresses either weren’t that annoying or eventually led to another round. Mickey decided he’d tolerate it all for now. He was even slightly put out at the loss when Ian kissed his shoulder and pulled away to get out of bed, not that Mickey would complain about it. He felt around for his cigarettes while Ian inspected himself in the dresser mirror.

“What’s with you?” Mickey said as he lit up.

“Checking if you did any damage,” Ian replied, some mild chiding in the words.

“I’m not the biter,” Mickey reminded him.

“I’m not a ‘biter’,” Ian denied, although he certainly was, “you make me sound like I’m not housebroken. It’s not like you have to explain shit to anyone when you go home banged up.”

“Well, I mean, as far as you know,” Mickey couldn’t help but tease, thinking better of it too late after he saw Ian stiffen.

“Do you?” Ian asked, turning to face Mickey, and the latter sighed.

“Again, what does it matter?”

“It matters,” Ian insisted.

“Why, so you can stack guilt or something? If you have some kind of masochism kink, I can think of a few more interesting ways to entertain you,” Mickey offered. “Fret about your end and let me fret about mine.”

Ian wasn’t easing up on this one. He had it settled in his mind that Mickey was a loner; he wasn’t sure he could entertain otherwise. His mind replayed the way Mickey was always checking his phone and laughing at whatever someone was telling him. “Is that why it’s always here?” he demanded.

“Yeah, Gallagher, that’s it. Can’t you have you barging in on Svetlana and the twins now, can I?” Mickey rolled his eyes as the dark clouds formed over Ian’s head. “Jesus, how are you this fucking easy? No, Gallagher, no wife, no kids, no annoying, inquisitive redheads.”

“There isn’t anyone then?” Ian said, relaxing a little until Mickey hesitated.

“Well, not exactly no one,” Mickey hedged. “There is Tony…” Mickey seemed to think it over for a moment before finally relenting when Ian’s eyes bored into him. He took his wallet off the nightstand, fished something out of it and offered it to Ian. 

Ian frowned at Mickey’s outstretched hand for a moment, dreading what it was going to tell him but too curious to resist. He grabbed the offering and revealed a short series of snapshots of a grinning Mickey and the fluffiest, happiest golden retriever Ian had ever seen. Ian could only stare for a moment in stupefaction. “You have a dog?!”

“Tony has me,” Mickey laughed and Ian gaped at him. It was the most unguarded he’d ever seen Mickey.

Ian’s eyes devoured the pictures and his brain automatically kicked into gear. There were five different snaps, five different outfits and moments, but all in the same place--a standard picturesque park that was probably identical to a hundred other parks that were scattered around Chicago--but for the skyline, and Ian knew that skyline. He committed it all to memory and reluctantly handed back the pictures.

“You have a dog,” Ian said in amazement.

“What? I’m not a monster; I can like dogs,” Mickey said with a touch of defensiveness.

“How long have you had him?”

“He’ll be five in December,” Mickey told him, and he’d be lying if he said Tony wasn’t a huge part of why he struck that deal with Fowler.

“He’s okay at home?” Ian asked, watching Mickey’s face carefully.

“Yeah, he’s a good boy. My handler watches him if I have to be out for a while, but otherwise he chills at home. I watch him on the monitor with my phone, and give him some extra treats. He freaks the fuck out when I talk to him through it though, probably thinks I’m trapped in it or something.”

There was no beating the soft fondness on Mickey’s face and for a moment, Ian was weirdly jealous of a dog. “Well, he’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, well he’s not exactly a killer guard dog, so he might as well be pretty.”

Ian laughed and then checked his phone. He had stretched the overtime excuse as far as it could go for the night. It was time for him to head back to Trevor, and for Tony to welcome Mickey home.

* * *

It was a hell of a time to promise he would put in more time at home, only for Ian to develop a whole new obsessive hobby. The Northside park hadn’t been hard to find after a few sessions with Google Street View. Where the hang up existed was that Ian had no idea what Mickey’s schedule was like. Mickey seemed to know his timetable well enough, never calling Ian when he was on regular duty or overtime. While Mickey seemed to have excellent intel on tap, Ian was forced to rely on an oldie but goodie--surveillance.

He would stop by the park whenever he had free time, and it became his new jogging route. The pet owners there were already becoming familiar with him and he had lost count of how many times he’d been hit on and propositioned with varying degrees of intensity, but so far he had yet to come across Mickey.

But that was the thing with surveillance, it was usually a long, arduous and boring task, often bearing little fruit for ages. Still, there was a reason it never went out of style--when you hit paydirt, it was beautiful. It had felt like forever, but in reality, Ian had only been on his voluntary beat for a few days. He had just about finished his cooldown stretches by the massive oak tree and was getting ready to leave when he spotted his targets. Ian could hardly believe his luck, but held his cover for a while longer.

Mickey took a seat on an empty bench and scratched Tony behind the ears before unleashing him. He hadn’t even gotten a hand on the collar yet before there was corgi barking insistently at them.

“He’ll be right with you, Cookie. We literally just got here. No chill,” Mickey tutted and turned his attention to Tony who was waiting patiently for dismissal. “Your bestie is a demanding, attention-starved diva, you know this, right? Hey, listen to me,” Mickey nudged his dog. “Remember what we talked about. You’re a big boy, so you gotta remember not to go too hard with the runts, okay?” Mickey snorted when Tony looked up at him wide-eyed, a picture of angelic innocence. “You know what I’m talking about, Tony. You made Bella do like two barrel rolls the other day and her mom was on my ass. Be a good boy. Alright, go play,” Mickey instructed and Tony was off like a shot to join Cookie and the rest of his canine compadres.

“He really is a beautiful dog,” Ian said, delivering the compliment as he strolled up to Mickey. The look of surprise on Mickey’s face was exquisite perfection, and Ian would have gladly done a few hundred more hours of surveillance just to earn it.

“How the fuck did you-” Mickey sputtered and stalled.

“Oh please, what are you thinking? This is just a coinkydink. I jog through there all the time,” Ian said and waved at a couple gawking dog owners for good measure. “Hey Lindsay, Rosa, getting cold enough for you?”

The two women giggled, fluttered and waved back, and Mickey’s head swivelled back and forth disbelievingly. 

“Have you been staking out my dog park?!” Mickey gasped. “And--did you just fucking say ‘coinkydink’--I just, how did you even-?” Mickey paused for a moment and took in the colossally smug look on Ian’s face. “The pictures...you-you fucking found me from the pictures?” Mickey said, blinking in disbelief. “Holy fucking shit, Gallagher,” Mickey laughed in amazement. “No fucking wonder Fowler snatched your ass up, that is just fucking-” Mickey shook his head, still laughing. “And I handed that shit right to you too.”

Ian could not contain his grin nor his self-satisfaction. He had been nervous about how Mickey would take his reconnaissance, but this could not have gone better. Ian was momentarily distracted from his amazing victory by a reddish-gold blur skidding to a halt in front of him. 

“Hey buddy!” Ian greeted the panting dog and immediately dropped down to meet him.

Mickey threw up his hands in defeat. For years he had been trying to train this dog and instill in him a simple stranger protocol. Step one: get to Mickey’s side when a stranger approached. Step two: check in with Mickey if it was a friend, foe or neutral. Step three: if friend or neutral, get your happy on; if foe, then either raise hell or run away, depending on what Mickey directed.

The protocol seemed simple enough, and Tony was aces at step one--genius level even. It was  _ after _ step one where things started breaking down. Far too often, Tony skipped straight to friend mode without so much as a check in from Mickey, just as he was doing now with his fellow redhead. Tony’s tail was wagging so fast as Ian petted him, Mickey was surprised the dog hadn’t helicoptered away. Mickey just sucked his teeth as the lovefest continued to unfold.

After an age, Tony looked over at his master. “Oh, so now you want to check in?” Mickey sniffed. “Suppose he was a dognapper, Tony? What if he had an unlicensed pet cemetery and was looking for customers?” Mickey sighed as Tony jumped up to lick his face. “You are the fucking worst at this. Fuck off and don’t keep Cookie waiting.”

“Don’t be so salty about it,” Ian said as he sat down next to Mickey. “He probably just knows my scent really well already. Plus, you’re probably always in a really good mood when you go home smelling like me, right? He knows I’m a friend.”

Mickey laughed again at the audacity. “Un-fucking-believable. You are something else, Gallagher.”

Ian didn’t know how Mickey was processing this new development between them in his mind, but clearly the mild stalking really pleased him for some reason. Mickey hadn’t really tried to wipe that smile off his face and Ian was completely besotted.

“Shit, they need to start handing you most wanted lists already, Gallagher,” Mickey told Ian, making the latter glow from the praise. “You’re a fucking beast. From the fucking pictures? I thought those were generic as fuck.”

Ian grinned happily for a moment and decided that he pretty much had the all clear for the next phase of his plan. “So, uh, I’m going to go use those bathrooms on the northeast side of the park. People don’t really use those a lot for some reason.”

“Damn, you really did do surveillance,” Mickey snorted.

“Yeah well Seinfeld taught me it’s always good to know the bathroom situation in any given place,” Ian said as he stood up and stretched. “Um, see you in a bit?”

“Yup, yup,” Mickey breathed out and tried not to watch too closely as Ian jogged away. When he thought an appropriate amount of time had passed, he asked Rosa to watch Tony for him while he took a much needed bathroom break.

* * *

Mickey found Ian in the last stall of the bathroom and laughed breathlessly as he was roughly dragged inside. “This isn’t that kind of park, Gallagher.”

“Any park’s that kind of park if you really want it to be, Mickey,” Ian whispered into Mickey’s ear as he unzipped Mickey’s jeans and started stroking him until Mickey was gasping and thrusting into his grasp.

“Shit, Gallagher, dog parks get you going?” Mickey joked, trying feebly to get back on some level footing, but they both knew he was defeated for the day.

Ian had never felt better or more victorious. He had caught Mickey off guard, kept him on the backfoot for once and somehow managed to gain points on Mickey’s chaotic, incomprehensible scoresheet. No, parks of any kind didn’t get him going, but unexpected intimacy with Mickey did; clearing away some of the fog of war between them definitely did.

“Tony gets antsy if I disappear too long, so maybe you can get this show on the road?” Mickey said, still trying for some sort of comeback despite the insurmountable deficit.

“Don’t worry about it; I have a feeling you’ll be done in record time,” Ian replied. Nothing could derail this win for him, and all that was left for the victor was to get to his knees and claim his prize.

**TBC**


	6. A Tale of Two Dates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take some time to thank everyone who has left feedback and comments on the story so far. You can't imagine how much I appreciate each and every one. A commenter was wondering recently if I got tired of/overwhelmed by feedback, and NOPE!!! If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, feedback is author fuel which energizes and it keeps us going. I feel guilty and wonder if I should be responding to each comment, but know that I'm super grateful and damn near memorize each one. Thank you so much and I hope you enjoy the chapter.

**_Rule 3: Don’t play the comparison game with the main._ ** _ It’s tempting to compare notes and lifestyles, but keep your eyes on your own paper. Comparisons lead to envy, envy leads to dissatisfaction, and dissatisfaction leads to drama. Remember what we said about keeping the mess to a minimum? _

* * *

They were going all out for their date night apparently, Ian observed. He had been assigned chef duties with vague instructions to “make it fancy,” and by the time he got back from his wine run, Trevor had transformed their small dining room into a romantic French bistro, complete with flowers, candles, and a white table cloth.

“Okay then,” Ian said, not hiding his amusement as he shed his coat and presented Trevor with the wines.

“We’re doing it live, Ian.” Trevor declared. “Gotta create the mood.”

And what a mood it was, Ian thought. It was a little while longer of fussing about before they were finally able to sit down before their heaping plates of pasta and giant wine glasses. With everything complete, the two sat in an awkward moment of silence, each staring at the other expectantly.

“Now what?” Ian asked, afraid to start digging into his food and breaking protocol somehow.

“We have a date, you idiot,” Trevor sighed. “We used to do this all the time. We couldn’t have completely forgotten how.”

Ian definitely remembered the parts about getting hammered on cheap booze, so he proceeded to pour himself a generous serving of red wine and then gallantly filled Trevor’s glass.

“I mostly meant what are the expectations here?” Ian continued. “What’s supposed to happen?”

If it was one thing that never changed, Trevor realized, was having to explain some of the most obvious shit to Ian. It often felt like being in a relationship with Tarzan; beautiful but uncouth, and definitely raised by wild animals of some kind.

“We talk--not about work, we check in, we reconnect,” Trevor told his boyfriend. “Maybe get a little buzzed and fuck afterwards.”

Seemed reasonable enough, Ian supposed. He should probably focus on eating more and drinking less in that case. He was already on his second glass of red wine and they hadn’t actually gotten to their agenda yet. He deliberately put the wine down and picked up his fork instead. The two then proceeded to chew in silence for a minute as they tried to find non-work related topics to broach.

“Pasta’s great,” Trevor offered.

“Well...yeah obviously. I made it.”

Trevor burst out laughing. “You are such an immodest dick, I swear.”

“What, I’m supposed to pretend I didn’t rock this?” Ian said unabashed. “I made it good and fancy; you’re welcome.”

“Whatever, dick,” Trevor laughed. “It is pretty good though.”

“Want to play a game?” Ian asked. “Work some scenarios?”

“Is this a profiling thing?” Trevor asked, a touch eagerly.

“No, you’re the one that said no actual work, Trev,” Ian said. “Just general slice-of-life scenarios.”

“Okay?”

Ian came out hot right out the gate. “So say I lost my shit, because of treatment failure or something, and disappeared for a minute. You find me or I call you, and when you get there, it’s me, blood-soaked, freaking out, with a dead body I can’t explain. What’s the next move? Total honesty, no judgement.”

“Jesus, Ian!” Trevor blinked incredulously. “THAT’S your scenario?! What the hell is ‘slice-of-life’ about that?”

“You watch nothing but true crime and Investigation Discovery. Don’t act like this isn’t right up your alley,” Ian pointed out. “One of the guys at work brought it up and I’ve been curious about how we’d handle it.”

American law enforcement was apparently full of Patrick Bateman clones, and none of that was reassuring to Trevor. He also wasn’t sure how this was supposed to be appropriate dinner conversation, but he started mulling it over nonetheless as he twirled his pasta.

“I mean I’d have to get you help, obviously,” Trevor mused. 

“What kind of help?”

Trevor frowned. Was this another “explain the obvious” moment? “Call 911? Have them get you some medical attention and try to figure out what’s going on?”

“The cops would come,” Ian reminded him, “and there’s a body that’s probably on me.”

“Yeah... but even if it was you, you wouldn’t have been in your right mind, and we’re not sure, right?,” Trevor explained. “The important thing would be getting you safe and calmed down and figuring out the rest later. I mean, I know I bitch about the system a lot, but you still have to trust it a little bit.”

Except Ian knew as well as anyone that the cops didn’t have the best track record when it came to dealing with the mentally ill, even if they weren’t in the middle of a mental break. The thought haunted Ian often and he shuddered every time a story came on with a worst case scenario ending. 

“Any kind of prep before you call then?” Ian asked, trying to prompt Trevor into giving an answer that was a little more comforting and not quite so textbook.

“What kind of prep? No prepping or cleaning up, Ian,” Trevor said matter-of-factly. “You’ve seen all the docs, that only makes things worse. All I’d be doing is earning myself an accessory after the fact charge.” Trevor eyed Ian carefully as the latter chewed thoughtfully, apparently thinking over Trevor’s approach. “Is this some kind of test? Was that the right answer?”

“You would definitely do the right thing,” Ian assured him. “I expected nothing different.”

That was a compliment, right? Trevor wondered for a moment, but dismissed the slight apprehension because Ian seemed unbothered and was already reaching for another, hopefully less appalling, situation. Trevor took a measured sip of wine and tried to play catch up in this weird new game.

* * *

The sex that night was a solid B effort, bordering on B+ since Ian had one of his new late stage rally moments, despite the fact that they had both gotten too sloshed on wine. Overall, the effort was a total win in Trevor’s book and, fingers crossed, it could only get better from there.

“You should call Hernandez,” Ian murmured softly in the dark, “and Lip.”

“What, now?” Trevor asked groggily.

“No, I mean if you need help,” Ian sighed. “If shit goes a little weird and you need help to wrangle me, call Hernandez and Lip first, don’t go straight to emergency services unless you can’t help it.”

“Oh,” Trevor said softly. Maybe his answer hadn’t been as right as it could have been. “Okay, but--”

“Just call them, Trev,” Ian insisted tiredly. “Hernandez is a special agent, and Lip is...Lip. They totally count as emergency services, I promise. Whatever happens, they’ll help you figure it out.” And would hopefully prevent Ian’s life and career from being set ablaze while he was being swallowed up by the labyrinthian and frustrating state mental health system.

“Okay,” Trevor agreed, and for once decided to leave it at that.

* * *

Ian was chomping at the bit to see Mickey by the time the man got around to messaging him a couple days later. Ian’s coat was already on before he even realized that it wasn’t the usual summons to the motel room, but that Mickey had dropped a pin on another Southside locale.

Ian hadn’t taken two steps onto the ballfield before he heard barking, and a moment later Tony was there, full of greeting and dancing around him in happy circles. Mickey’s whistle came from the dugouts, and Ian and Tony’s eager responses to it were nearly identical.

“You know he’s conditioning us, right?” Ian shared with Tony, but the dog didn’t seem to mind in the least and shot off to his master. Honestly, Ian didn’t really mind either and followed right after. He stepped into the dugouts to find Mickey seated inside, feeding Tony a French fry and tutting when the dog sniffed around for more.

Mickey nodded to Ian as the newcomer took a seat next to him. “You better eat that before he cons you out of it,” he warned Ian, nodding to the paper bag with Ian’s food in it. “I couldn’t come here and not take him,” Mickey explained. “It’s his favourite place. I come here without him and it’s over for me when I get home. I figured you wouldn’t mind since you two are so fond of each other.”

Ian only grinned in response and petted Tony. His heart was already hammering away for no goddamned reason and he was actually grateful for Tony’s distraction to try and center himself and minimize the potential embarrassment.

“Why come here at all then?” Ian asked and Mickey clicked his teeth.

“I guess it’s kinda my favourite place too. I used to love sneaking into games here,” he admitted unexpectedly. “Plus, you seemed to be getting all uppity about the motel room, and you clearly like the outdoors. Just figured we’d hang out here for a change.”

Ian loved it; he loved all of it. He took a generous bite of his burger and stealthily snuck Tony another fry. “You’re a baseball fan?”

Mickey laughed. “I’m not some alien from the far reaches of outer space, Gallagher. I tell you the most basic, mundane shit and you act like I’m interpreting the Book of Revelations. I love dogs, I love baseball, I also inhale oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide. How about that? That do anything for you?”

“Are you kidding? Respiration is super hot,” Ian joked and dramatically crumpled up the burger wrapper so Tony would chill with the begging eyes.

“You’re into baseball, right? You are a Sox’s fan?” Mickey asked suspiciously and Ian was affronted.

“Of fucking course I am; I’m not the mysterious, weird one here,” Ian replied. “This was actually one of the backup plans if the whole GI Joe thing didn’t pan out.”

“It was?” Mickey asked him. “Thought you could go pro?”

“Fuck yeah, I was fucking decent,” Ian nodded. “But then, you know, life happened and I got a little distracted from World Series dreams. I would have killed it though, I’m sure.”

“Could’ve been a contender, huh?”

“Could’ve freaking been somebody, Mickey!” Ian said and then both giggled at their shared nonsense. “You didn’t plan to go for it?”

“Yeah, and I was on a straight shot too, but got derailed…” Mickey sighed and sipped his milkshake.

Ian endured the fumes of bullshit long enough to ask, “and just what terrible thing derailed you?”

“Little League commissioner kicked me off my team for pissing on first base,” Mickey shook his head at the injustice. “If it wasn’t for that though.”

“Shit, to think we could have met at training camp.”

“I know, right? This close,” Mickey said and the two shared a look and burst out laughing again.

Tony returned to investigate Ian some more and the man was more than willing to administer some ear scratches and belly rubs while Tony whined contentedly.

“Do you two need some time alone?” Mickey asked drily. “Am I intruding?”

“Whatever, it’s all about you, Tony,” Ian cooed to the dog, “we should ditch the square and run off together. Why a name like ‘Tony’ though?” he asked Mickey and the answer was probably the last thing Ian expected.

“Copacabana,” Mickey replied.

“What?”

“The song ‘Copacabana’,” Mickey repeated. “It’s his favourite.”

Ian stared at Mickey for a second to see if he was serious. “Fuck off,” Ian laughed. “You’re so full of shit. It’s a  _ Scarface _ thing, isn’t it?”

“What about that dog says  _ Scarface _ to you?” Mickey challenged. “I’m serious; it’s the Copacabana, and not even the Manilow original. He only fucks with the Muppets’ version.”

“Fuck off,” Ian repeated looking between Mickey and his dog. “Fuck off.”

“When I took him home, he was this big,” Mickey said, nodding to his palm. “Wasn’t sure what to name him for a while. He was just so little and quiet until I randomly put that Muppets’ episode on one night and he lost his tiny shit,” Mickey laughed. “I was even going to name him ‘Zee’ because he was vibing on Liza Minelli so hard and you know she’s Liza with a Zee, right?” Mickey said complete with spirit fingers.

“That is the gayest shit I’ve ever heard you say...or do, and you have explicitly ordered me to fuck you in the ass.” 

“Shut up, alright, Liza’s an ally and we love her,” Mickey sniffed and then grinned down at Tony. “But ‘Zee’ was stupid, ‘cause who the fuck’s named ‘Zee’? But Tony was perfect, because he was sweet and quiet, but he could fuck up Rico any day named day, right?” Mickey nodded and Tony barked and growled at the mention of the villain. “Yeah, fuck Rico!”

Ian was cracking up. “I fucking hate the two of you. I don’t believe any of this. You’re just doing this shit to charm me.”

Mickey rolled his eyes at Ian, seemed to think about it for a while, and leaned forward to his dog. “Hey, Tony, who shot who?” he said in a dramatic whisper.

Tony was immediately activated, spinning around in some dizzying circles before collapsing dramatically to the ground.

“Because Tony and Rico would spin around and around in the Muppets’ version while shots rang out and then Tony would fall over because he was the one who got shot--JUST SHUT UP WITH YOUR FACE!” Mickey demanded, his rushed explanation getting derailed by Ian dying even more than the fictional Tony. Mickey sucked his teeth, but indulged in one last bit of theatre, for completion if nothing else. “Hey Tony, at the Copa...don’t fall in love,” he said softly and Tony quit playing dead so he could sit up and howl mournfully into the evening air.

“I hate you both so much,” was all a devastated Ian could manage.

“He also super loves it when you dance like a Muppet with him.”

“Do you have Muppet dance parties with your dog?!” Ian gasped.

“No, what the fuck do you take me for? My handler told me that shit,” Mickey said, making no effort to hide the fact that he was lying through his teeth. He scratched under Tony’s chin. “We’re out of food, so stop sweating us. Fuck off and go play until your sprinklers come on.”

Mickey smiled fondly at his dog as the retriever took off. He glanced over at Ian to see the man smiling softly at him. “What’s your malfunction now?” Mickey said gruffly, feeling heat creep up his neck as the moment settled on them without Tony’s distracting energy around.

Ian slid closer, eliminating the gap between them so he could grasp the lapel of Mickey’s jacket and tug him into a kiss. As the kiss deepened, Ian released Mickey’s jacket to stroke his face tenderly. He was taking his time, taking full advantage of Mickey’s compliance, and revelling in the warmth of Mickey’s body and the faint saltiness that lingered on his lips from the French fries.

“That wasn’t a ‘get on me’ kiss,” Mickey pointed out after Ian finally pulled away. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to say it, since it wasn’t quite a complaint. But then, soft and slow never failed to leave him a little discombobulated lately.

“No, it wasn’t. It was a ‘I just really wanted to make out with you” kiss,” Ian agreed. “I’m glad you’re able to differentiate though. You know, not everything has to be an immediate prelude to animal fucking, Mick.”

“If you say so,” Mickey said skeptically. “But just so I can tell in the future, what would that prelude look like?”

There was definitely a difference. Their next kiss was rough, deep and demanding with Ian groping Mickey’s erection through the material of his jeans until he decided to get to his knees between Mickey’s legs.

“We really have to meet outside more often,” Mickey said shakily as Ian unzipped his jeans and filled his mouth with Mickey’s cock.

Ian hummed his agreement with Mickey’s plan, making Mickey shudder as his hand raked through Ian’s hair. Ian undid his own pants so he could roughly palm himself as he sucked Mickey off, getting as much pleasure from giving the blow job as Mickey was from receiving it. 

They needed to meet more often in general, Ian thought to himself as Mickey thrust into his mouth, it didn’t matter where. Maybe then they wouldn’t be so close to spontaneously combusting when they were finally near each other. Still, given the circumstances, Ian was more than happy to take what he could get--for now.

* * *

The sprinklers went off a split second after they had climaxed together. The timing of it made Mickey laugh even as Ian kept him pressed against the chain-link barrier of the dugout, still deep inside Mickey and still pulsing through his own release.

“What’s funny?” Ian mumbled into Mickey’s neck.

“Nothing,” Mickey answered and shook his head before admitting, “I always wanted to do that here.”

“Revenge on the Little League commissioner?” Ian guessed as he tugged on the material of Mickey’s t-shirt with his teeth.

“Pretty much,” Mickey said and straightened up, signalling Ian that it was time to give him some space. He fixed his clothes and turned to face Ian, eyeing the latter for a moment before unexpectedly snaking his hand around Ian’s neck to tug him into a kiss.

“What was that one?” Ian asked, beaming happily when they pulled apart.

“That was a ‘don’t drop that where my dog can get to it’ kiss,” Mickey joked and nodded to the condom Ian was in the middle of disposing of.

“Ew, gross,” Ian groaned out loud at the awful implications while Mickey went to hunt for a cigarette. Ian dutifully gathered all their garbage and went in search of a Tony-proof bin.

Ian and Tony returned to the dugout from their respective duties at nearly the same time. Tony was dripping wet, having cavorted in the water shower until the sprinklers turned off. Ian noted the dog with amusement, not realizing Mickey’s wary eye nor the way the man carefully put a healthy distance between himself, his dog and his clueless paramour. Tony looked Ian square in the eye and let him have it, shaking himself near dry and drenching Ian.

“Proud of yourself, huh?” Mickey sniffed as his dog, drawing near when the danger had passed. He tossed a towel at Ian. “That’s for him, but you look like you need it more right now.”

After Ian had patted himself dry as best as he could, Mickey relieved him of the towel and whistled softly to Tony, who dutifully presented himself at his master’s feet to get towelled off. Ian scooted as close to Mickey as he was physically able, the other man giving him a harassed look but not shooing him away.

“Can I ask you a question?” Ian began hesitantly.

“Better than anyone else I know.”

“You remember what you said to me about real family and hiding bodies and shit?” Ian said, earning a curious look from Mickey. “What would you really do if one of your brothers called you with a situation like that, like he had a drug freak-out or psychotic break or something… No screw it, what if I called you in a situation like that--losing my shit, dead body I can’t explain, real deep trouble?”

“Why the fuck are you calling me?” Mickey asked pertinently. “You don’t call to get your dick sucked, but you’re calling for emergency services? I shouldn’t even be anywhere near your top ten speed dials.”

“But say you are though,” Ian insisted, unable to shake the scenario until he heard Mickey’s answer. “One hundred percent honesty, no judgement or expectations. I’m just curious, seriously.”

Mickey eyed him warily, wondering what this new bit of weirdness was about, and if it was some kind of trap. “You a cop?” he joked, “you gotta tell me if you’re a cop.”

“Tell me,” Ian whined and knocked Mickey’s knee with his own.

Mickey hesitated briefly but relented soon enough. “Some things depend on some things,” he began cryptically. “Who’s the stiff?”

“In this scenario? I don’t know,” Ian answered, having perfected this particular, prickly situation in his head. “Surfaced and I’m just there with a bloody body. Don’t know what happened, but pretty sure I’m not in a great spot.”

Mickey eyed Ian one more time, gauging how serious Ian was being and how honest he should be with a man who took an oath to uphold the nation’s laws. “Until we get a handle on shit...disappear him.”

“Disappear him?!” Ian repeated in shock.

“Yeah,” Mickey shrugged. “Well, depending on how messy everything is, either the body goes or we’d have to put some serious distance between you and the scene. I prefer when the body goes, because if there’s no body, there’s no crime, you know? And cleaning a crime scene to eliminate all traces of the perp being there is a bitch and next to impossible...or so I heard,” Mickey added quickly.

“Yeah,” Ian agreed faintly.

“Who’s your bff at work? You got a ride or die? Someone who won’t go wailing to Fowler right off the bat if shit gets a little hinky?”

“Hernandez,” Ian nodded.

“So for you, I call Hernandez and I’ve got people,” Mickey continued. “People we can trust to get you sorted and start piecing shit together so we can get a game plan together. Fowler’s good people and he’ll go to bat for you, but he’s at the cleaner end of things. Gotta start with the grimy first. So Hernandez has your back, huh?”

“And Lip…”

“Who?”

“My big brother.”

“Oh, Phillip, right?”

Ian blinked at Mickey before he laughed softly. “I forgot you know all that already.”

“Not just a knower, Gallagher, I’m also a fan. So Hernandez and Lip are your people that I would have to scramble,” Mickey nodded and then looked at Ian significantly. “Hernandez, Lip, and no one else?”

“You said to start at the grimier end of things,” Ian replied and Mickey only returned a knowing, lopsided grin.

“Knowing you, drug freak-out or whatever, if there’s a stiff, he probably had it coming anyway,” Mickey reassured him. “Once we figure out what happened, we’ll know how to run it from there; if we can avoid the law altogether, all the better. They tend to have a very black and white way of looking at things that’s not always helpful.”

What Mickey was suggesting was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, highly illegal plan that should be filling Ian with dread and revulsion instead of the swoony, manic butterflies that were there now. There was nothing remotely normal about this.

“So if I call you tomorrow, that’s how it would go down?” Ian asked shyly.

Mickey laughed quietly at Ian’s bashful weirdness. “What is this; your version of the Kobayashi Maru? Try and keep the body count to a minimum, Gallagher; make it a little easy for me.”

“I like your plan. I could work with that plan,” Ian nodded and pressed even closer to Mickey. “Granted, in that scenario I’m completely out of my mind, but somewhat rational me is onboard. You’d do that for me?”

Mickey eyed him up and down and laughed wryly. “I swear, Gallagher, if you ever get bored of the Bureau scene, you could make a monster of a con man.”

“What, why?” Ian asked, taken aback by the odd compliment.

“When I used to run scams, I had to do so much prep--work my ass off to get some marks to trust me and let their guards down. That’s how it usually is,” Mickey shared. “But you, you’d be one of those special fuckers. You could probably just stroll up to a sap and tell him you’re there to take his shit, and he’d just hand you the keys to the kingdom.”

Very weird praise, but Ian was glowing nonetheless. “I don’t run scams though,” he pointed out.

Mickey huffed softly and shook his head. “Well, that remains to be seen, right?”

They stared at each other silently for a moment and Ian reached up to toy with the lapels of Mickey’s coat. “Can you get Tony to go play for a minute?” Ian suggested, the depth and roughness of his voice gave Mickey goose pimples.

“Fuck off and go play until your sprinklers come on,” Mickey told Tony, and he didn’t have to say it twice. Tony was off like a shot, completely unconcerned that his new friend had apparently just physically tackled his master to the hard ground of the dugout. Mickey would let him know if he couldn’t handle Ian. Until then, Tony had sprinklers to defeat.

* * *

“I can’t believe it’s only October and it’s already this cold,” Alexis complained to her friends, unable to fully enjoy their outdoor table at brunch. She looked over at Alan, a young man of Japanese descent, who was too glued to his phone to pay her proper attention. “What’s your deal?”

“Looking for dick options,” he grumbled.

“Funny, that’s the exact title of my Tinder bio,” she said. “How’s it going?”

Alan adjusted his glasses and sighed forlornly. He had only recently come out and begun living his life as a transman, and was both daunted and sometimes disappointed by the resources available to him.

“Why is everything so expensive?” Alan sighed again. “My insurance sucks so bad for this. My mom wants to help me with the medical stuff, but there’s not a whole lot she can afford either. You’re so lucky your parents paid for all your surgeries, Trevor.”

“Yeah, and it only took one suicide attempt to get them onboard,” Trevor snarked. “But cheap at any price, right?”

Alan winced hard. “I’m sorry; that’s not what I--I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s okay, I know what you meant,” Trevor said begrudgingly after Alex kicked him hard under the table. Honestly, Trevor wanted nothing more than to be a friend and a valued resource as Alan dealt with all the issues surrounding his transition. The problem was that Alan suffered from chronic foot-in-mouth disease and was constantly, inadvertently stomping on Trevor’s last nerve. Trevor didn’t know why Alexis even bothered defending Alan; it wasn’t as if the man stayed chastened for very long.

“You ended up doing a phalloplasty, right?” Alan plowed on, already over his latest faux pas, “but a metoidioplasty is cheaper and less risky? The results don’t look so great though.”

“It’s not just about the cost or the look, Alan. There’s a bunch of factors you’re going to have to consider before you choose,” Trevor told him. “I chose phalloplasty because being able to have penetrative sex was extremely important to me and I had a lot of dysphoria about my genitals. You’d have to think about how you feel about skin grafts and scars, how much sensation you’d be willing to sacrifice, even how you feel about using the bathroom sitting or stan-”

“None of the dicks I’ve seen in my price range look particularly impressive either,” Alan cut in, having not heard Trevor’s advice. “What happens when someone actually has big dick energy and wants to reflect that?”

Alex choked on her mimosa while Trevor glared daggers at the interruption and accidental insult. She quickly cut in before Trevor could jump across the table and start throttling the clueless young man for alluding to Trevor’s perceived lack of BDE.

“Speaking of super impressive dicks,” Alexis said suddenly, “how’s Operation Reconnect going with Ian?”

“Fine,” Trevor gritted out, a little slow to be distracted. Eventually, he warmed to his topic and mellowed out. “Pretty good, actually. We’ve only had a couple of dates so far, but the atmosphere is improving already. Ever since we agreed to work on us and stay checked in, Ian seems way happier too. You were right about talking stuff out.”

“Told you soooooo!” Alex sang out mellifluously. “Maybe I need to focus on couples’ therapy instead of abnormal psych as a career path. Man, it can be such a burden being good at everything.”

“And at least you guys didn’t get to the Band-Aid baby stage,” Alan joked. “Then you would have known things were in trouble.”

“Huh?” Alex and Trevor responded in unison, and Alan blinked at them.

“You know, Band-Aid babies,” he said and pointed to his face, “like yours truly. My mom was completely checked out on my dad and their relationship, but wasn’t ready to accept failure, you know? So like a million other crazy people in the world, they thought having a kid would be the fix that would bring them back together. I guess it would be something to focus on and distract them from their sham of a relationship? If you’re already having relationship problems and someone starts talking about kids and shit, that’s pretty much the death knell from my experience.”

“Well nobody freaking mentioned Band-Aid babies,” Trevor snapped irritably, failing to see how that added anything to the conversation. What the hell did that even have to do with anything?

* * *

“You think we should get a dog?” Ian asked as he chewed his steak thoughtfully. He had lost track of which date night this was supposed to be and what the theme was. Still, he figured it would be as good a time as any to ask.

“A what?” Trevor replied.

“A dog... What do you think about adopting a dog?”

Trevor could only stare bemusedly. “Where is this coming from? Why the hell would you want a dog all of a sudden?”

Ian shrugged a noncommittal shoulder. “Just an idea. A friend of mine has a dog and he’s amazing. Made me wonder if we should get one, that’s all.”

Plus with a new puppy, maybe Ian would be a lot more eager to actually come home, engage, and strengthen his relationships there, and less inclined to blow hot, mysterious, emotionally volatile FBI assets in public parks and baseball dugouts.

“Ian…”

And when that well-intentioned plan inevitably failed, at least Tony would get a playmate to help keep him occupied while Ian and Mickey did graphic and obscene things to each other, preferably in a Southside setting of their choosing.

“Ian?!”

“Uh huh, yeah?” Ian blinked, rudely dragged out of his arousing reverie.

“We don’t have the time, space, or energy for a dog,” Trevor pointed out. “How would that even work? Why do we need a dog?”

“We don’t,” Ian shook his head as Trevor scrutinized him. “Just a crazy thought that crossed my head because I fell in love with, uh, with the dog. But you’re right. We couldn’t deal with that right now. Maybe later when our schedules calm down,” Ian drifted off, talking more to himself than anything, lost in thoughts of Mickey and two-dog households.

Trevor watched Ian blissfully tuck into his food, slightly discomfited by his boyfriend’s bizarre suggestion, only for Ian to easily relent with no apparent acrimony. Trevor rolled his eyes at himself and dismissed his paranoid concerns. This is why Alan was such a pain to deal with half the time. Trevor needed to simply focus on Operation Reconnect, and the last thing he needed was to waste valuable mental energy musing about dumb death knells and for whom the bell tolls.

**TBC**


	7. Are we having fun yet?

**_Rule 4: Don’t get mad if you get bumped._ ** _Unless the voodoo that you do is oh so good, the main is going to take priority at some inconvenient times, no matter how much it irks you. You may have made your super important plans first, but they locked down your bae before you did, so, you know...deal._

* * *

“Okay, so I’m not bailing on our date.”

Ian raised an eyebrow at Trevor’s breathless declaration. He had just answered Mickey’s summons to his motel room and had already been wracking his brain for a plausible excuse to feed Trevor about skipping out on their date night. Instead, it seemed like Trevor was handing him a gimme.

“Sounds like you’re about to, actually,” Ian replied.

“Andrew’s parents really dumped him at another ‘pray away the gay’ camp upstate. He just called us,” Trevor explained. “I’ve got the rescue squad together and we’re going to go get him.”

“Are you guys going to be fine? You need backup?” Ian frowned.

“Andrew’s over eighteen; they can’t legally hold him. From what he’s saying, they aren’t really all that militant there either,” Trevor reassured him. “It’s just a ride, basically. Plus I’ve got Alex and Mike with me with their giant muscles.”

“Hi, Ian!” Alex yelled out from the passenger seat. “What are you wearing? Is it nothing?”

Ian laughed at the interjector. Alex was always fun. “Hey, Alex,” he greeted before turning his attention back to Trevor. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t drive like a maniac. And technically, yeah, you’re bailing. Sounds like you could have just sent bus fare.”

Mickey could not believe he was laying there listening to these morons quibble over what constituted date abandonment. He rolled his eyes and glared at Ian as the latter paced in tight circles at the foot of the bed, and mentally willed him to hurry up.

“Whatever, Ian. Look, just grab me some Chinese food from our place before they close, okay?” Trevor asked. “Get my usual.”

“Where we went for dim sum?” Ian said before ducking out of the way as Mickey sent his shoe sailing perilously close to Ian’s head. He smacked Mickey’s foot and mouthed for him to chill out. “Will do, just be careful and send up a flare if you need me.”

* * *

“Aw, aren’t you two cute,” Alex cooed, making Trevor roll his eyes even while he grinned. “Ugh, and he’s so gallant too. Fingers crossed I find a guy willing to ride at a moment’s notice to go rescue the perishing all the way out in the Sticks.”

“Sure, he’s probably praising Jesus that I didn’t take him up on the offer,” Trevor replied. “I’ll be willing to bet money he was happily planning to get caught up in some Bureau nonsense before we even hung up the phone.”

* * *

“What is your malfunction?” Ian swatted Mickey’s foot again before he started removing his clothes.

“I can’t believe you’re over there talking about dim sum when I’m over here with my dick out,” Mickey griped. “Work on your priorities, Ian.”

Ian froze for a moment, and stared at Mickey until the latter shifted uncomfortably. Mickey knew he had fucked up somehow when the slow, triumphant smile spread across Ian’s face.

“What?” Mickey asked gruffly.

“You just called me Ian,” Ian pointed out gleefully. “That’s new.”

Mickey scoffed dismissively at yet another of Ian’s ridiculous milestones. It was easy to score victories when every dumb thing supposedly meant something. He sucked his teeth and avoided Ian’s eyes, unaware of the hot flush creeping up his neck into his face and feeding Ian’s insufferability.

“Isn’t that your fucking name?” Mickey retorted far too late, the window having long closed on being able to play off the significance of the moment.

“Sure,” Ian answered, practically crowing. “I like the way you say my name, Mick. I can’t wait for the variations. Does this mean I get to call you shit like ‘baby’ now?”

“Call me that and I will cut your fucking tongue out.”

Ian only beamed harder and shed the rest of his clothing. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”

* * *

Mickey was awakened by the sensation of Ian’s kisses down the length of his back to just before the curve of his backside. The move was one of Ian’s many little goodbye rituals that managed to make Mickey simultaneously tingly and annoyed about how tingly they made him. He turned over, just as Ian was pulling away to put on his shoes and prepare to leave.

“Ay, so…” Mickey began thickly, trying to defog his brain. “A client of mine basically owns a skybox at Rate field; told me I could pretty much use it whenever I want, go all out with the extras on his tab.”

“No shit? Nice,” Ian said appreciatively. Those luxury boxes could cost an arm, a leg, and then some.

“Yeah, so the Sox still have some post-season shit going on, so I thought I’d take in the game on Saturday, do it up with all the trimmings. You’re off for the weekend, right? Wanna tag along?”

How Ian had made it into the FBI despite having absolutely no ability to play it cool was beyond Mickey. He rolled his eyes, embarrassed and charmed by the naked happiness on Ian’s dumb face. One would have thought he had proposed marriage instead of offering to go to a stupid baseball game. His eyes flicked back to Ian’s face and away again while he awaited his answer. In these moments, he could never sustain eye contact with Ian for too long--it was like staring into the sun.

“Sure!” Ian answered, the human embodiment of Tony wagging his tail. He knew he was mortifying Mickey with his overjoyed eagerness, but he couldn’t help it. It was going to be the best day, and it was really a shame that they were going to see almost none of the game itself. He wondered if it was rude or in poor taste to fuck in another man’s skybox, but Ian could not bring himself to care.

* * *

Ian also could not bring himself to shut up about it. His excitement was palpable and overwhelming--the best things in the world were coalescing on the coming Saturday: Mickey, sex with Mickey, sex with Mickey at a ballpark (in luxury accommodations, no less), the White Sox, and obscene amounts of game day food and alcohol. Ironically, the only person he could geek out to without fear of them trying to horn in on his date, was his boyfriend, who could not care less about baseball and its superfans.

Trevor nodded politely and even tried to drum up a bit of enthusiasm as Ian gushed about skyboxes and the White Sox and heaven knows what else. Ian, naturally, left out the part about the frequent fornication with his gracious host, but he figured the rest was fair game. Still, he could see that that particular topic was beginning to pall on Trevor, and that in his own enthusiasm, he was at risk of oversharing.

“Wait, is this the same friend with the dog?” Trevor asked suddenly one day, making Ian’s heart stop momentarily when Trevor connected some dots Ian hadn’t realized he had placed. “Which one of the agents is he again? Have we met?”

Clearly, Ian was going to have to gush to someone else.

* * *

“So I have to tell you something, so I can tell you something else; but you can’t be a judgmental dick about it,” Ian told Hernandez as she searched through the take out bags for more food.

“This about you fucking Milkovich?” she yawned. The mobsters they were surveilling were being particularly boring that evening.

“Jesus fuck, how did you know?!” he hissed.

“Probably because I have eyes, I guess. The day he showed up to see Fowler, you were practically salivating,” she told him. “When he left, you went after him like a dog chasing a frisbee; came back like you’d been through a war.”

“Fuck,” Ian moaned. “Who else knows?”

“Who else is supposed to know, Gallagher?” she asked. “Would anyone else give a shit?”

Ian relaxed a little at that, but still, to know he was so obvious. “Fuck.”

“Sex is fire, huh?”

“Oh my god, you don’t even understand. He melts my brain,” Ian breathed out dramatically.

“Shit,” Hernandez said, shaking her head. “I knew that fucking swagger came from somewhere. So the sex is hot, but is it ‘blow your life up’ good though?” she asked him pointedly.

Ian sighed and regarded his friend thoughtfully for a moment. “Maybe?”

“Shiiit,” Hernandez said in amazement. “You are dickmatized. You need to take a minute and think shit through though, Gallagher. Things like this? It’s often hot until it’s not.”

“I’m not going to blow things up with Trevor. This is just...insanity,” Ian told her. “Mickey’s not serious; he’ll fuck off when he gets bored. I just can’t stop, Hernandez. I don’t know what the fuck is happening.”

“Make sure you cover your ass,” she warned. “Trevor seems like good people for the most part, but you know he would vivisect the shit out of you.”

“Yeah...you think me and him should be endgame?” he asked her suddenly and Maria blinked in surprise.

“Endgame? I thought you already had it settled in your head that you were.”

“I do, we are…” Ian hedged. “I was just wondering what you thought. I mean you know us; you’ve seen how we are. We’ve been trying to reconnect and do better and shit.”

“Where does shaking the bed with Milkovich fall in that plan?” she teased and earned herself a harassed look. “Shit, I don’t know, Gallagher. The long-term stuff, it gets routine, it feels stale sometimes. I go through it all the time with Jeremy. But if it’s real, it’s worth fighting through it, you know. And Trevor seems solid, you know? I mean, he’s what my abuelita would call ‘fresa pequeña’, I guess?”

“A little strawberry?”

“Yeah, no, well not literally,” she tried to explain. “Like, he’s a lil stuck up and up his own ass sometimes? And he can get super preachy and intense about shit, and the fucking condescension sometimes. Where the fuck did he get off coming at me with excessive force stats?!”

“Jesus Christ, Hernandez, say how you really feel!” Ian gasped. “Were you inviting us over to game night to slaughter us?”

Maria shrugged. “Sorta? I so wanted to beat his ass at Clue and some profiling scenarios I dug up. But I say this to say that no one is perfect and everyone has their shit you have to reckon with. I mean, you’re getting strange on the weekends; you’re no grand prize yourself. You guys seem like you’re good for each other? I don’t fucking know, bitch!”

“Ringing fucking endorsement, Maria. Just so reassuring,” Ian withered.

“Your dick, your life, figure that shit out,” she sniffed. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

Ian sighed and pushed thoughts of Trevor and life imprisonment aside for the time being. He nudged his surveillance partner. “Mickey scored access to one of those Diamond boxes at Rate field for the Sox game on Saturday.”

“Are you fucking serious? Those are so fucking clean!” Maria gasped. “Wait, what am I doing on Saturday?!”

“I can tell you what you’re not doing,” Ian interjected quickly. “That was a brag, not an invite!”

“Eres tan pendejo, Ian!” Maria exclaimed, punching his arm. “Any of those boxes hold at least ten people, prick!”

“And? I’m spending half the innings of that game getting my dick sucked, and the other half returning the favour. We need room and privacy to fuck, Hernandez!”

“Wasted on you! Oh my god, the caucasity,” Maria mourned. “I should snitch to Trevor. You getting catering?”

“So much food. It’s just fun, food, fucking, and maybe we’ll see someone else slide home besides me,” Ian smirked unrepentantly.

“Disgusting,” Maria sneered, green with jealousy.

Any further conversation was derailed by the sounds of laboured breathing coming through their speakers. The two agents immediately wrinkled their noses in disgust, having heard this particular noise enough times to readily identify it.

“Salvatore’s getting top from the pool boy again,” Maria groaned. “Why does he do this to us? He knows we’re out here hearing this shit.”

“He’s probably higher than a fucking kite right now,” Ian said, shaking his head in amazement. “The fucking pool boy--why does a ballbuster like Linda tolerate this shit from her husband?”

“She’s busy fucking Big Tony, that’s why,” Maria explained, referring to the Outfit’s underboss. “You can tolerate a lot of shit when you’re fucking someone like that. Big Tony can get it; he can get all of it.”

Sal’s emphysemic breathing broke into their thoughts again. “Ugh, can you imagine having to fuck that guy?” Ian cringed, sympathizing with the poor pool boy.

“There but for the grace of god, Gallagher,” Maria reminded him. “Doesn’t matter how fucked up a situation is; know that it could always have been you.”

“Fuck that,” Ian said, shaking his head. “I’ve made some fucked up calls that have put me in some shit, but to get to that?!” he said, indicating the gross action coming from their speakers. “Those decisions would have to be many and be increasingly…”

“Terrible? Disgusting? Life-wrecking? Soul-crushing?” Maria suggested helpfully.

“Yes, any of those words fit.”

“I’d like to think that there could still be a happy ending in a story like that,” Maria said and winced as Sal wheezed across the finish line. “Ugh, pun not intended!”

Ian remained unconvinced and instead bleached his brain with cleansing thoughts of Saturday. Not even Sal could ruin that reverie.

* * *

Ian smiled at the sweet scene of Mickey drying his dog. Even though he was occasionally weirdly jealous of it, Ian deeply appreciated the fact that Tony was the one thing that Mickey didn’t even try to be guarded around, and he could see the man in all his cooing, softly smiling, deeply affectionate glory.

“Who’s my good boy?” Mickey asked as he fluffed Tony’s ears. Tony yipped softly and licked Mickey’s nose, completely enamoured of his master and making him laugh. “Yeah, you’re my best boy.”

Ian slid onto the bench next to Mickey, making a happy note that Mickey didn’t even bother glaring at him despite the fact Ian was blatantly crowding him.

“Think we’ll have as much fun in the skybox Saturday as we do down here?” Ian asked Mickey.

“Oh is that this Saturday?” Mickey asked blankly, before laughing aloud when Ian glared at him.

“Don’t even play with me,” Ian growled but was distracted by his phone ringing. He frowned when he saw that it was Trevor, who was supposed to be working late that night. He stepped away from Mickey to answer the call. “Hey?”

“Okay, so you love me right?” Trevor began nervously, immediately putting Ian on high alert. “Believe in everything we’re doing here?”

“What’s going on, Trev?” Ian asked warily.

“You didn't answer though,” Trevor pointed out. “You love me?”

“Right now, I’m not entirely sure,” Ian said drily. “Maybe tell me what’s going on and I’ll let you know.”

Trevor sighed loudly but acquiesced. “Alex is a miracle worker and pulled off the impossible. She actually managed to score us two tickets to that benefit at the Hilton on Saturday.”

Ian’s heart froze at the implications. “What, wait, the Hilton? Isn’t that a cancer benefit?”

“Yeah, and we’re basically crashing it, Ian. Do you know how many lgbtq+ events are on the Chicago charity calendar this year? Zero. A shit ton of museums benefits, foodie shows, a gazillion cancers...but none for us. We need to hit this one. They’ll be donors there looking to dump money for tax write-offs before the new financial year. We could clean up.”

“I have plans, Trevor.”

“I know, I know, god I know,” Trevor replied quickly. “And I swear to god, I will do everything and anything I can to make it up to you, because I know how much you were looking forward to this, but, Ian, I need you. We all do!”

“Just take Alex then!”

“These are the fat cats of Chicago. Alex grew up with half of these people and they’re tight with her parents,” Trevor explained. “It would be an evening of passive-aggression, deadnaming, and misery. It would just be a huge trigger for her. I can’t put her through that.”

“Oh my god, then take-”

“Ian, I’m not asking you just to be an asshole!” Trevor snapped irritably before biting back on his annoyance. “Look, I know, I’m sorry, alright? But you know how much funds we need and how little funding and opportunities we get to solicit any. We need to get some more shelters up, staffing and supplies-”

“Jesus Christ, don’t fucking preach to me, Trev. I know what you need!”

“Then why are you being such a dick about this? It’s a dumb, fucking baseball game, there’s like a million of them a year! Isn’t the season fucking over yet?!” Trevor shot back and then tried to reel it in again. “Ian, please, I need you. You’re charming and you calm me down in these situations so I don’t snap on people...it goes so much better when you’re there.”

Ian could feel the oppressive silence behind him, knew that Mickey’s eyes were boring into him and that the man was locked on to his end of the conversation. This was going to be painful.

“Yeah, alright fine,” Ian said mutedly.

“I promise, I’ll make it up to-”

Ian ended the call before Trevor could even finish expressing his relief and gratitude. He rubbed an agitated hand over his face and tried to brace himself to turn around. He finally gathered his courage and turned to face Mickey, who was quietly rubbing Tony’s head and awaiting the news.

“Mick, look, about the game…”

“Got somewhere else you need to be?” Mickey asked helpfully, expertly feigning nonchalance.

“There’s this benefit,” Ian started hesitantly. “We could get to raise some money for kids like us, you know? See if we can get some more safe spaces up and running…”

“Yeah, sounds important,” Mickey said, his eyes still not shifting from Tony. “I’d have killed for that shit when I was a kid. Hopefully your shelters would have better water pressure than the ones I went to. So Saturday’s off then.”

This did not feel as if it was going as well as it sounded to Ian. “So we can-we can just reschedule that, right-”

“No,” Mickey said simply. “I don’t reschedule shit.”

And there it was. Ian had the sinking feeling that it wasn’t going to play out well. He was already having post-traumatic stress flashbacks to Mickey shutting down and icing him out when he had tried to break up. This was completely different though, Ian reasoned. This wasn’t a rejection by any means. The problem was that reality was all about perception, and Mickey’s way of perceiving things was mystifying. 

“Mickey, come on, don’t be like this,” Ian cajoled. “I want to go with you to the game. It’s just--you said it yourself how important stuff like this is. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Will you fucking look at me?!” Ian demanded suddenly and Mickey finally looked up. “You just said you understood how important this is.”

“And I do understand,” Mickey replied.

“Then what’s this? What’s this atmosphere then, huh?” Ian asked.

“I don’t know,” Mickey started off slowly, looking Ian directly in his eyes, “I guess what I didn’t realize was just how much of a bitch you were for your boyfriend. It’s just surprising is all. It’s eye-opening.”

Ian froze over instantly. “I’m nobody’s bitch,” he gritted out. “Not Trevor’s, and sure as fuck not yours.”

“Noted.”

Ian looked heavenward as Mickey gathered up his things and prepared to leave. He grabbed Mickey’s arm when the latter tried to pass by him. The warning look in the blue eyes told him it was best to release Mickey immediately.

“For fuck’s sake, Mick. This? This is stupid,” Ian said. “Can we just take a minute to-”

“Try to have some fun at that benefit while you’re making all that money, Gallagher. All work and no play…” Mickey reminded him, and then took his dog and went his way without another word.

* * *

Saturday could not come and go fast enough for both Ian and Trevor. A black storm cloud had descended on Ian and he was making absolutely no attempt to wave it away. Trevor gave up trying to be conciliatory. Ian could sit there in his corner, throw his tantrum, and hold his breath until he turned blue for all he cared. It’s not like he scheduled the benefit to fuck with Ian’s silly games schedule. 

By the time Ian’s Ford Escape pulled up to Alex’s apartment complex, the air in the vehicle was sulphurous. Alex smiled awkwardly when the window rolled down and the toxic miasma billowed out from the couple. She gingerly handed them the tickets in a gilded envelope and quickly stepped back.

“Hey guys,” she chirped. “Hi, Ian!”

“Alexis,” Ian nodded, staring straight ahead.

Shit, okay. “Ahem, so the food should be good at least,” she tittered while she and Trevor shared a look. “It might be fun, you know?”

“Right, we’re going,” Ian said and peeled away from the curb a second later.

“Wooow,” Alexis breathed as the SUV sped off. “Still would though...still would.”

* * *

Ian’s transformation when he stepped into the hotel ballroom was incredible enough to even throw Trevor for a loop. Trevor could only gape when Ian turned to him, gave him a warm smile and whispered “let’s do this”, before striding confidently into the fray. Trevor had to scramble to keep up. 

He had thought he would be handling a sullen, dyspeptic Ian all night, but Trevor had forgotten what Ian was like when he was a man on a mission--single-minded and methodical. Ian had sacrificed his plans to make money for their cause, but by god he was going to do it. Together, he and Trevor were going to hussle, charm, and wring every red cent they could out of these over-privileged windbags if it was the last thing they did.

They tackled every one-percenter they could, singing the dire needs of marginalized youth until the person was either moved by their plight, or desperate enough to get away from them, they were willing to throw money. One way or another, they were walking away with either a commitment or a check for their troubles.

Admittedly, Ian slipped a few times, zoning out as he lost interest in the conversation and got distracted, swearing he glimpsed the distinctive coal black hair, or blue eyes, or simply felt Mickey nearby. Every so often, Ian would scan the room, not sure if he was dreading or hoping that Mickey was there. It would be nothing short of a disaster if Mickey turned up, even if it wasn’t to cause a scene. Still, Ian found himself searching vainly for a glimpse of the other man, until he remembered himself or Trevor’s hand on his arm drew him back to the task at hand. Ian still had a job to do, and he intended to do it well for all it may have cost him.

* * *

Mickey didn’t know what the fuck he was doing there. He took another sip of expensive grape piss and watched balefully from his unobtrusive spot on the second floor as Ian and his boyfriend worked the room on the floor below. So that was the incredible, edible Trevor, Mickey sniffed to himself as he chewed the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t quite see the fuss, to be honest, and dismissed the boyfriend to focus on his real mark.

It certainly didn’t look like a hostage situation. Ian and Trevor looked good together and worked the room like a couple of pros. They conversed easily, nudging each other to point out people and points of interest, whispering and sharing their little inside jokes. They seemed comfortable and attuned to each other, especially with a common goal to work towards. Mickey downed another glass of wine and shook his head, annoyed at himself. 

What had he been hoping to see? What had he been expecting? How did he somehow convince himself that Ian was trapped in some kind of relationship hellscape? For all Ian’s griping about his boyfriend, it had been clear from the outset that Ian wanted a distraction from his relationship, not an escape. Mickey huffed to himself in disgust and shoved away from his hiding spot. He was tired of blending with this crowd and dodging Ian’s roving, restless eyes. It was time to head home and quit before he fell even further behind.

* * *

Of course Mickey didn’t call even though it had been days now. Ian stared unseeingly up at the ceiling in the dark of his room, unable to sleep. Again he contemplated calling and still found himself unable to overcome the mental block of hitting the dial button. He reasoned that Mickey wasn’t going to answer anyway. He was on punishment, after all, because Mickey was unreasonable and insane, and the punishment would last as long as Mickey deemed it fit, or Ian found a way to end it.

He rubbed at his face tiredly. He used the free time that sleepless nights afforded him to draw unhelpful, anxiety inducing parallels between his feelings for Mickey and the highs and lows of his disorder. He chided himself to cut that shit out because it wasn’t fair to either of them and he was psyching himself out. After all, wasn’t that all he wanted after he had started his medication--to feel all his feelings again? 

But maybe he had gotten too used to everything being a little muted, because Jesus the intensity Mickey brought was terrifying. The euphoria when they were together, the crushing coldness and despair when Mickey became a vengeful ghost--maybe he shouldn’t keep strapping himself in for this scary rollercoaster of a ride Mickey was running. Maybe he couldn’t handle it.

He glanced over at Trevor who was sleeping peacefully next to him. Trevor was the merry-go-round to Mickey’s unrelenting thrill ride. Ian could handle the gentle highs of their good times, and deal with the soft dips of their disagreements. Maybe theirs wasn’t a scream your heart out love affair, but he was never going to walk away from Trevor weak-kneed and nauseous from all the barely manageable emotions roiling inside him either.

Ian sighed and closed his eyes to try and get some sleep. Maybe he just needed to take Mickey’s silence as a small mercy, do himself a favour and just leave well enough alone.

* * *

“Hey, Gallagher, Hernandez, how’s it going?” Raj, a member of the Bureau’s tech support team, greeted the duo warmly before smiling dopily at Maria.

Ian chuckled under his breath. Unrequited feelings seemed to be catching around the Bureau like a goddamned disease. No one seemed capable of staying in their romantic lanes. Raj’s crush on Maria was as massive as it was sad, and she was either unaware or uncaring. In fact, she was far more invested in her bagel and cream cheese than she was in Raj’s entire existence and barely mumbled out a greeting as she scanned some case files on her tablet.

Fowler walked out of his office and headed straight for the exit. “Raj Mahal, you’re going to have me sorted by the time I get back?” he asked, not even pausing as he passed by.

“Sir, yes sir!” Raj nodded eagerly.

“Aces,” Fowler said and shot Raj with a wink and a finger gun. “Hernandez, with me!”

Maria almost choked on her bite of bagel and scrambled to gather her things and take off after her boss. She was the chosen one for the day, apparently.

“He didn’t even break stride once,” Raj remarked awestruck. His crush on Fowler threatened to rival the one he had on Maria. “So cool.” He nodded to Ian and headed into Fowler’s office to fix the senior agent’s latest technical issue.

Ian tapped his pen on his desk as he watched Raj settle into Fowler’s chair and start working. Before long, he was seated across from the technician and Raj looked up at him curiously.

“I had a question, thought I’d ask your advice,” Ian began. “I need to get some information from the personal files of one of our assets, but I don’t have the clearance. How would I deal with that?”

“Oh, um, Agent Fowler could grant you temporary clearance if it’s pertinent to a case,” Raj suggested.

“Yeah, thing is, it’s not really a case yet, but more of a hunch I’m working on,” Ian said. “So I don’t currently have any justification yet; just trying to build my case, basically.”

“Ooh, you already have a secret mission?” Raj asked, leaning forward eagerly. “Shit, you guys are cool,” he added before frowning, “but yeah, that would be a problem if you don’t have the clearance. The digital footprints created are no joke and if you pull an unauthorized access, there will be questions. Who’s the asset?”

“Umm, a guy named, uh, Milkhailo Milkovich, I think?” Ian said.

“Mickey?”

“Mickey?!” Ian said, his tone changing so abruptly, Raj was thrown for a loop. “You know him?”

“Yeah, well not know-know, but we've talked a few times and I’m friends with his handler. He seems pretty cool,” Raj shared before he was struck with a sobering thought. “Oh no, do you think he’s compromised?”

“What?! No, no, god no! Jesus, Raj, why would you jump all the way to that?!” Ian exclaimed, horrified that he hadn’t thought of that possible implication of his romantic snooping.

“It’s just because you-”

“No, not compromised,” Ian confirmed quickly. “I just needed an address...of one of his contacts, that’s all.”

“Phew,” Raj said, palpably relieved. “I know he drives Carrie crazy sometimes, but they’re super tight. She would lose her shit if something went wrong with him. Can’t you just talk to him then? For your info?”

“You know I would, but can’t seem to find the guy,” Ian said wryly.

“Yeah, Carrie complains about that sometimes,” Raj nodded. “Maybe talk to her then? She probably has everything in his file memorized by now. If she can’t tell you what you need, she can definitely point you in his direction.”

* * *

Carrie, Ian was informed, was easy to find, unlike her asset. She had her lunch on the south lawn of the Bureau grounds most days, weather permitting. “Just look for the weird black girl with the locks, jamming out to dad rock,” Raj had told him. True to his word, there she was, barely containing her air drums and singing under her breath as Ian approached her bench.

“...mistaken...handing you...heart worth breaking,” she sang softly to herself and kept jamming silently before belting, “are we having fun yet?! Jesus fuck!” she yelped when Ian put a hand on her shoulder. She took out her air pods and squinted at Ian. The amount of sheer knowing that entered her eyes when she recognised him immediately put him on alert. “Special Agent Ian Clayton Gallagher, in the flesh. Now this is a rare and unexpected treat.”

“Agent Sinclair,” Ian greeted. “Great to finally meet you; I’ve heard a lot of good things.”

Carrie’s smile was unholy and she picked up a carrot stick to deliberately snap it in half with her teeth, not breaking eye contact with Ian for a moment to even blink. How was it possible for two unrelated people to so closely resemble as Carrie and Mickey did just then?

“Oh you make so much more sense in person,” Carrie told him. “I know this is the first you’re seeing me, but I’ve seen you a few times and my computer screen can be a little unforgiving sometimes. You have some angles that don’t quite hit--you know what, never mind. What can I do you for, Special Agent Gallagher?”

Ian could already tell this was probably not going to be a fun time. “Ahem, I was, um, trying to get in contact with Mickey.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, um, is he around?”

“If we’re going to have a conversation, Special Agent Gallagher, then I’m going to need you to have a seat or two. I’m not here for the whole towering over me schtick,” she said lightly. “I know all the interrogation techniques, and you’re fairly new and not slick enough to pull them off against me yet.”

“I wasn’t--sorry,” Ian mumbled and sat opposite her.

“I’m not in the habit of losing my assets, Special Agent Gallagher. Funnily enough, the last time I lost track of Mickey, I got to understand he was with you. Is he not with you now?”

“We haven’t spoken in a little while,” Ian said, knowing full well she was probably more than caught up on all the drama. “Is he mad at me?”

Carrie’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates before she burst out laughing. “Oh my god, are you serious? Really, is this where you are already?” she asked incredulously. “I know us members of the Rainbow Brigade tend to move with a greater sense of urgency, but you white gay boys are at a whole different track meet. It’s been what, two months? I know it feels longer, but I swear it’s only been two months. And he’s already got you acting goofy in these streets, asking ‘is he mad at you?’ Boy, if you don’t-”

“I just want to get in contact with him.”

“And I’m sure there are much easier ways to do it than everything you’re doing now,” she said pointedly. “Special Agent Gallagher, correct me if I’m wrong, but do you not have a whole ass boyf--no, I apologise, I was about to overstep. But if I may speak freely?” she asked and Ian nodded hesitantly. “You know how many assets a good handler is typically responsible for?”

“A few?”

“Yeah, typically. With budget cuts and low manpower, a good handler will manage about two or three assets. I’m one of the best here, Special Agent Gallagher; possibly the brightest witch of my age, and do you know how many assets I deal with?” she asked and Ian shook his head. “One...one crazy motherfucker occupies all my time. Do you know why that is? Because Mickey, lord love him, is napalm. He is the equivalent of that old-timey nitroglycerin that would explode and kill those dudes in the wild west when they rolled over a rock. He’s fucking Flubber,” she said and made Ian laugh in spite himself. “To this day I have to approach Mickey the same way I would a horse that I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ve broken yet and might just toss me off. It’s very thrilling, but...are you sure you want that problem, Special Agent Gallagher? I do, because I love that shit, and I get paid for it. He will take over your life, Special Agent Gallagher; you ready for that ride?”

Ian regarded her silently for a moment. “How do I reach him?”

Carrie only smiled and picked up her air pods. “You really thought I was going to snitch out my asset? Boy, you thought. You have a more direct line to him than most; maybe use that,” she suggested. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Special Agent Gallagher, a girl only has so many minutes in the day to get her lunch on.”

“But I-”

“Reclaiming my time!” she said abruptly and dismissed him to return to her veggie spread and jam out. Ian finally took the heavy hint and left the table.

* * *

Ian lost track of how long he had spent staring at Mickey’s number on his phone. His finger had hovered over it at least a dozen times as he talked himself into and out of the idea of crossing that last line. He took a bracing breath and hit the dial button, half expecting to find his number had been blocked. Mickey picked up after three rings.

“What’s good, Gallagher?” Mickey drawled casually from across the line.

And there they were, those roiling, effervescent, messy tangles of feelings, waking him up, spurring him on, making all his synapses fire wildly, and strapping him into another ride on the rollercoaster. 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey gentle people ♥  
> Foxp45 (hey, boo, hey) asked if I had any other Sega Dreamcasts besides Obama!Fowler. I really don't tbh. The only other person I could give you a concrete reference for is Dre. Dre is actually built off the template of one of my favourite cousins, but you don't know that ho, so that would be unhelpful. However, that cousin, and consequently Dre, looks remarkably like a young Lennox Lewis. So if we can digitally de-age Lennox Lewis about 30 years and give him Waka Flocka Flame dreads, then you'd have Dre. If you guys have specific people in mind when you imagine these guys, I'd love to hear them.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thanks again for the love.♥


	8. The Harder They Come...

**_Rule 5: Communication is key_ ** _. That’s it. That’s the rule. They can’t all be epistles._

* * *

It was the docks this time. Ian was in no mood to even attempt to decipher the meaning behind it. Maybe there was something secretly sweet and hopelessly romantic about why Mickey wanted to meet in the middle of a bunch of shipping containers. Maybe he simply wanted to add another Southside backdrop to their eclectic collection of tryst venues. Maybe there was something shady and deeply insulting towards Ian in the choice hidden between the layers of Mickey’s reasoning. Who could say? Mickey was clearly as deranged as he was mysterious, and Ian was not up to playing detective right then.

Ian pulled up to the spot slowly and parked in the deep shadows of a stack of containers, defaulting to reflexive surveillance practices. Mickey stood waiting between another stack of containers, smoking nonchalantly as he stood just beyond the reach of the security lights. Mickey dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his foot as Ian approached. He looked up to say some kind of greeting but was unable to get anything out before he was nearly sent sprawling to the concrete by Ian’s hard shove.

“What the fuck, Mickey?!” Ian demanded.

Mickey barely managed to save the fall, somehow staying upright and quickly retaliating. “What the fuck is your malfunction, Gallagher?!” he yelled back, shoving Ian who was far too securely planted by then to yield much ground, and far too worked up to convey his feelings eloquently.

Instead, Ian rushed Mickey, tackling him hard to the ground and almost knocking the wind right out of him. Mickey wasn’t entirely sure what Ian’s motivation was coming at him like that, but it was aggressive in any event, and Mickey wasn’t about to roll over for it. He struggled to regain the upper hand. The two men tussled for a bit before Ian finally managed to straddle a furiously squirming Mickey and pin Mickey’s hands to his chest.

“Get the fuck off me!” Mickey demanded, but all Ian did was keep him pinned and glare at him. Mickey’s breathing slowed as he eventually relaxed a little, in spite of the heat and tension radiating off his aggressor. Perhaps he wasn’t at as big a disadvantage as he thought. “What are we doing, Gallagher?” he asked flippantly, and this time he was more than ready for when Ian’s lips came crashing down against his.

Ian finally released Mickey’s hands so they could both tug and grasp frantically at each other as they bit and sucked at each other’s lips and throats. They each fumbled with the other’s pants, too wound up and clumsily eager to make quick work of a task they had done dozens of times before. They both released shuddering moans as Ian ground down, rubbing his bare erection against Mickey’s and making Mickey arch in response.

Ian tangled a hand in Mickey’s hair and tilted Mickey’s head back so he could nip and suck on the column of Mickey’s throat while they frotted desperately against each. Mickey gripped the back of Ian’s jacket to hug him closer and shoved his free hand down the back of Ian’s pants to grope Ian’s ass and sink his blunted nails into Ian’s bare flesh as their mutual orgasm built. Despite their efforts to stifle their groans and harsh breathing, they still came loudly enough for the sounds to resonate against the cold metal of the containers around them. Ian had barely collapsed before he was being unceremoniously shoved to the side.

“Get the fuck off me,” Mickey ordered, not giving Ian a chance to settle into his soft, teddy bear foolishness, lest Mickey himself got suckered in immediately. He stared down at himself and groaned in exasperated disgust. “This was a brand new, fucking shirt, Gallagher!”

“Shirt, what?” Ian sputtered, incredulous as Mickey got to his feet and prepared to storm off. “Are you fucking serious right now? I came here to talk to you, you unbelievable prick!”

“Yeah, ‘talk’, obviously,” Mickey sneered down at Ian and indicated his splattered, ruined dress shirt. “Good talk, Gallagher; fuck you very much.” Mickey then turned to stalk off in earnest, except he did not get very far. It was still fairly early in the meet up, but clearly, there was already a theme forming for the night.

* * *

It had been a while since Mickey was thrown against a cop car and then perp-shoved into it. So he could maybe forgive himself for being a little nostalgic as he was tossed into the backseat of Ian’s SUV. Ian’s arrest technique was perfection too, even throwing in the ‘mind-your-head’ maneuver as he deposited Mickey inside the car. Unlike those other times he was detained, Mickey was more than willing and eager to engage with his arresting officer. 

Mickey struggled to get out of his jacket and kick off his shoes within the confines of the car, while Ian quickly did the same outside before climbing in to join Mickey. Mickey fisted his hand in Ian’s t-shirt and dragged him down until they were in tangle, trying to get each other’s clothes off without breaking their kiss.

“Fuck this,” Ian panted and pulled back from Mickey so he could yank off Mickey’s shirt and ultimately send a couple buttons flying.

“The fuck, Gallagher!” Mickey protested as the ripped shirt was tossed onto the front passenger seat.

“You said it was ruined,” Ian pointed out after he got rid of his own t-shirt and turned his attention to Mickey’s jeans. “Why would you wear a nice shirt to the fucking docks?”

“I was going to at least wash it first and see!”

“Jesus Christ, will you shut up about the fucking shirt?!” Ian said before abruptly shuffling back and dipping down to take Mickey’s cock in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Mickey gasped as Ian hummed around his cock and sucked him down hard and fast. He gripped Ian’s shoulders and tried his best not to go spinning off the edge of the earth far too quickly. Sensing the danger, Ian pulled away and Mickey was hit with a mixture of relief and loss. “Goddamn, Gallagher, I should spend the rest of my life pissing you off,” he laughed shakily as Ian tugged off Mickey’s pants and underwear and threw them into the trunk.

An odd light entered Ian’s eyes and he leaned forward to touch Mickey’s face and close in for a kiss. Mickey was having none of that. This was not that moment and he was damned if he was to let Ian skip straight to his schmoopy, soft-core bullshit. He twisted away, avoiding the kiss and the caress and shoved Ian back. Ian was stung by the rejection and pulled back to glare uncertainly at Mickey, while the latter glared back before raising an expectant eyebrow. Ian leaned forward to try again and was met with the same rejection.

“Is this what we’re doing? This is the game you’re playing?” Ian asked.

“What game would that be?” Mickey asked drily.

“You either want this or you don’t, Mickey,” Ian said, “and I’m not playing this game. I’m not going to make you, if that’s what you’re after. I’m doing fuck all with you until you admit you want this as much as I do.”

Mickey said nothing and there was a standoff between the two as they glared at each other.

“You legitimately cannot be this stubborn and this insane,” Ian said. “You are rock fucking hard; just tell me that you want this.”

“Like a fucking hole in the head.”

“Tell me that you want this.”

“Or what, Gallagher?!” Mickey spat out, throwing down his challenge.

Ian was suddenly there, hovering mere inches above him and glowering down. For a moment, Mickey really thought that Ian would snap, but the green eyes softened and the puppy snuck in.

“Tell me that you want me, Mickey,” Ian asked softly.

There was fighting dirty and then there was that. Mickey was a dirty fighter and he could understand and respect all it involved and all that came with it, but this...this was so unfair. How was he supposed to counter that? Who could be proof against it?

“You know I do,” Mickey gritted out and the triumph in Ian’s eyes was beyond maddening. “Fuck you, Gallagher!” 

“Fuck you first.” Ian shot back, but he had what he needed. This time when he closed in, there was no swerve or rejection.

Mickey let Ian savour his prize for a moment, allowing himself to get burnt up by the fire coming from all directions. When Ian ran his hand up Mickey’s thigh and started murmuring his name, Mickey could feel the softness threatening all over again. He shoved Ian away, but before the man could protest, Mickey flipped over onto his stomach and issued a far more acceptable challenge.

“It’s been a minute. Do you even remember how to fuck me?”

* * *

The night watchman, who was a scrawny, pockmarked, eighteen year old kid, watched uncertainly as the Ford Escape rocked violently on its wheels. Someone was either getting epically fucked, brutally murdered, or some unholy combination of the two in that car, and the discarded jacket on the ground outside it offered no clues as to which scenario was in play. He swallowed nervously as the rocking continued unabated, with only the occasional hard thump from inside the vehicle punctuating the action.

He was paid eleven bucks an hour to stop people from trespassing, vandalizing the containers, and stealing whatever was inside. He guessed the occupants of the SUV were technically trespassing, but who cared about that? As far as he could determine, nothing was being stolen or vandalized, at least from the docks, and eleven bucks was nowhere near sufficient to buy enough courage to break up whatever was happening in that poor, beleaguered vehicle. He gave the shuddering SUV a nod and quickly put as much distance between it and himself as possible, with the sincere hope that everyone involved survived the night.

* * *

This had not gone the way he had planned. Mickey wasn’t sure how he thought the night would actually have gone, but sitting naked in the back of Ian’s car and staring unseeingly out the window, seething, was not high up there on the list of possible scenarios. 

He was naked because Ian had strategically scattered his clothes throughout the car as if he had flung seeds to the wind. Mickey was damned if he was going to suffer the indignity of scrounging around and gathering them up under Ian’s supervision, so naked he remained until he figured that out. He was staring in vain out of a window that was still too steamed up from their exertions, so he couldn’t even be soothed by the still black waters of Lake Michigan. The lack of soothing really sucked in particular on account of all the seething.

Somehow, somewhere, at some point, things had taken a turn. This was only supposed to be a fun, casual hookup with a smoking hot redhead who aggravated easily, and would be amusing to rile up. Now Mickey was sitting in the backseat of a cheap, compact SUV, bare and exposed, full of feelings he could not identify and most certainly did not want. This was bullshit and he wanted no part of it. Yet, at the time he needed one most, Mickey could not think of a single exit strategy--not from this car, and not from Ian, who was boring holes into Mickey’s back while Mickey refused to acknowledge him.

Ian was glaring so hard at Mickey, he was forgetting to blink. Of course Mickey would immediately shut down again just after they’d finished fucking, because Mickey had the emotional intelligence of a honeybadger. Mickey wasn’t even the wronged party here; a fact that was very easy to lose track of with Mickey’s absolute commitment to his victimhood. 

Still, Ian knew he would have to take the higher road. He was trained to perform conflict resolution in some of the most fraught of circumstances. All he had to do was deescalate, diffuse, and have some frank, open, diplomatic dialogue in the hopes of finding a mutually beneficial way forward. He just needed to be cool, calm, and collected about it.

“You are the dumbest, most unreasonable, ignorant asshole that I have ever-” Ian began.

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?!” Mickey exploded.

This exchange kicked off two solid minutes of them screaming incoherently at each other, neither hearing a word nor giving any quarter. It might have continued for far longer if some accidental physical contact hadn’t been made, which quickly devolved into another bout of passionate, aggressive lovemaking.

“I fucking hate you,” Ian moaned as Mickey rode him hard towards mutual oblivion. He gripped Mickey’s hips so tightly, his nails would leave half-moon impressions in them for the rest of the night. “No, I don’t,” he amended as he hugged Mickey closer. “Didn’t mean that.”

The slight shift in their bodies from the hug was enough to cause Mickey to bang his head against the car roof.

“For fuck-who the fuck drives a Ford Escape, Gallagher?!” Mickey demanded. “Why don’t you have a real car?!”

“I’m sorry we don’t all have that sweet, ex-con money to pull for, Mickey,” Ian gasped as he felt Mickey tightening around him. “I didn't know you were so discerning.”

“Apparently not,” Mickey replied acidly. “Why don’t you crash another cancer benefit, and go tickle some old man balls for some new car money?”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!”

“No, fuck you!” Ian growled as he slammed Mickey onto his back.

* * *

 _“Still going,”_ the night watchman observed with a grim nod of his head. At least the direction of the rocking seemed to have changed somewhat, so maybe that was a good sign? Eleven bucks an hour, he reminded himself as he walked away from the enduring carnage. This was some bullshit.

* * *

Mickey gently poked at his busted lower lip with his tongue and tried to recall exactly when and how that had happened. He had tasted blood at one point, had that been his or Ian’s? He glanced over quickly at the other man, and Ian was gingerly assessing his own injuries. This was certainly a fun way to communicate.

“How was I not going to go?” Ian tried again. “You really think I didn’t want to go with you to the game? Seriously, do you really think that, Mick? How was I supposed to square that with my conscience if I said no, huh?”

“I guess I figured the benefit was just more your speed,” Mickey said drily. “Luxury boxes and ballpark hotdogs probably pale in comparison.”

“You are certifiable if you think for a second that’s where I really wanted to be that Saturday,” Ian said exasperatedly. “It was for a good cause but it was the fucking worst!”

“Yeah, you looked really broken up about it,” Mickey sneered. “Your misery was palpable.”

Ian stared at the back of Mickey’s head as the latter looked moodily out the car window. “You were there?”

Mickey scoffed loudly, but didn’t answer and kept refusing to make eye contact. Ian knew it, he fucking knew it. He knew he wasn’t crazy, feeling as if Mickey had been around, and he knew it was far more than mere wishful thinking.

“You were there,” he repeated firmly. “You didn’t go to the game?”

Mickey rolled his eyes and snorted derisively. “Had to see what all the fuss was about, didn’t I? The benefit that was better than baseball,” he said before he was cut off by Ian’s hand grabbing his bicep, and his entire being getting pulled over to Ian.

The fire and fury had truly worn out of them by then, but Mickey didn’t feel it was a loss surrendering to Ian’s brand of soft and sweet for this round. He had gotten his way first and more often after all, and that totally counted as a victory...maybe. Besides, they were both already pretty banged up, and another rough round might see them having to explain sex injuries to an unamused emergency room nurse. Having Ian whisper in his ear and stroke his body until it was buzzing seemed like the far lesser of two evils.

* * *

“I’m sorry I missed the game,” Ian tried once more, hoping that the third attempt at this conversation was the charm. “I wanted to go, I wanted to be with you, I swear. I just don’t understand why you freaked out like this and cut me off.”

“You don’t call,” Mickey finally said, mortifying himself with his own honesty. He didn’t know why he was admitting it; it sounded pathetic in his head and even stupider coming out his mouth. “You never call the shot; it’s always me. Then when I take it a step further, all of a sudden, you’d rather go to a fucking stuffed shirt benefit. Was just wondering if maybe you weren’t that into it,” Mickey said with a shrug and refused to look anywhere but at his finger tats.

Ian was flabbergasted and had to take a minute to pull his thoughts together. “Your brain is truly fucking amazing,” he breathed out at length. “You were wondering if I wasn’t that into this? Oh my god, Mickey, have I ever said no to you?!” Ian asked him. “I am slowly blowing up my life for you. You call at the most insane times… You call when I’m just getting off work, you call during date nights, you call when I’m trying to fuck my boyfriend, you call when I’m trying to remember what fucking direction ‘up’ is in, and have I ever once said no?! I drop fucking everything; I say the most insane, suspect shit to get next to you, and you wonder if I’m not that into it?!”

“You never call,” Mickey repeated stubbornly, unsure what else to say.

“I don’t call because-” Ian sputtered and stalled. He sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “I figured...I figured if I wasn’t the one to call then maybe I wasn’t as culpable for all of this, I guess.”

“That is the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard,” Mickey snorted, as opposed to two minutes ago, when “you never call” was the stupidest thing to be uttered in all of man’s history.

“I know it’s stupid, okay?” Ian said defensively. “I don’t need you to tell me it’s stupid. It’s how my fucking brain works--I get hung up on shit sometimes and have some embedded thoughts that are hard to shake--” Ian stopped himself from saying too much on that. “I didn’t realize it was pissing you off so much and how it came across. You called me when you wanted me and I thought that part was working.”

“It was cool when you showed up at the dog park,” Mickey said quietly and self-consciously poked at his knee. “Figured you were showing some real interest, but then I started thinking maybe you just wanted to see Tony.”

“You thought I spent all those man hours and burned all my free time to verify the existence of your dog?” Ian asked. “Tony is amazing and, in retrospect, totally worth the effort, but that was a hundred percent about you. Is it fucked up that we get turned on by mutual stalking? There’s definitely some pathology there that might be worth exploring,” Ian mused. “I’ll call; if that’s what you want. I always wanted to call, I was just...dumb.”

Everything about this was dumb, Mickey thought to himself. This was some teen rom-com nonsense and he could not believe he had missed all this ridiculousness in middle school just to agonize over boys calling him now. “What do you want?” he asked Ian.

“Huh?”

“Since we’re negotiating shit,” Mickey said, he’s eyes flicking over to Ian. “What do you want?”

“The unedited Dubai video,” Ian said with surprising quickness, making Mickey burst out laughing.

“Fuck you, I told you that doesn’t exist any more and I wasn’t kidding,” Mickey laughed. “I wasn’t about to keep that shit.”

“Fine, I want back our date,” Ian said. “The Sox have a couple games left; we can reschedule.”

“Never said it was a date.”

“Never said it wasn’t, either,” Ian countered. “I want it back.”

Mickey sniffed. “Fine, whatever. I’ll see how it goes.”

“Stop shutting me out when you get upset,” Ian continued softly. “Stop disappearing. I don’t, um, I don’t handle that so great--people I care about taking off on me. I have a long, storied history,” he trailed off awkwardly. He braced himself for Mickey’s derision and waited to be told that he needed to man up and get over it.

Mickey regarded Ian silently for a moment. “It’s fight or flight for me, Gallagher. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Shit, I’d rather you started swinging then,” Ian said sincerely.

“Yeah, my dad preferred the fight option too. I’m not that big of a fan--I mean, not when it’s family, you know? I’ll fight every other motherfucker; that’s fun. It just hits different when it’s someone who matters...literally hits different,” Mickey chuckled awkwardly and wished he could get dressed or at least busy himself with a cigarette. Why was this turning out this way?

“I get it. Maybe we can do this then,” Ian offered. “Try to stick around and just fuck it out until we figure out how words work.”

Mickey laughed again. That didn’t sound like the worst thing. “I’ll see what I can do, Gallagher.”

“There is another thing…”

“I only said call me, maybe, and you had to have a whole goddamned laundry list of demands. What the hell, Gallagher?”

“Ian. You were calling me Ian and I want that back too. That’s the last request.”

“You’re Gallagher when I’m pissed at you,” Mickey replied, “and what I call you is at my discretion, so you’ll be Ian again when I’m no longer mad and I say so.”

“But we talked and you’re not mad any more,” Ian pointed out, resting his head on Mickey’s bare shoulder and turning big, green, puppy eyes on him. “You’re not mad at me.”

Mickey tried to fight back his smile. “Don’t try that fucking Jedi mind trick on me. I fucking hate that. That’s my second demand.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ian whispered into Mickey’s neck as he pressed closer. “You’re just not mad at me any more, and I’ll prove it,” he said as his fingers moved threateningly towards Mickey’s most ticklish spot.

“Gallagher-”

“Nope!”

“Wait, alright, wait, okay just-” Mickey burst out laughing and tried vainly to escape as Ian attacked him mercilessly. “Fine, Ian! Ian, there! You fucking six year old,” he surrendered and wet his lips as Ian settled over him. “No more butt stuff though,” he warned as Ian closed in. “I’m already feeling it.”

* * *

The watchman almost pissed himself when the rear car door flung open and a rumpled redhead practically fell out. Ian picked up his discarded jacket from the ground, and looked up to see the teen gaping at him. The two stared wordlessly at each other for a moment.

“FBI,” Ian nodded and grabbed his badge from out of his car to flash it at the befuddled watchman. “Everything okay here? Yeah? Good! You’ve been doing great work here, sir. Everything, uh, looks secure. Carry on!”

The young man found himself saluting as Ian nodded again, quickly climbed into the driver’s seat and sped away. He really needed a raise.

* * *

“You’re late--oh my god, what happened to you?!” Trevor changed gears immediately as Ian winced into their living room.

All the endorphins and adrenaline were bleeding out of Ian’s system, and sensitivity and pain were replacing them. His ribs were bruised, his knee had connected with something unforgiving at some point, and he was most likely developing a shiner of a black eye.

“Hostile and uncooperative fugitive,” Ian answered as he slowly and painfully removed his coat. “Wore him down though.”

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“Looks worse than I feel,” Ian reassured his boyfriend as he shuffled past. “He’s back in custody, and that’s the most important thing.”

“Do you want me to get you a steak from the freezer?” Trevor asked and that was enough to give Ian pause.

“What? Why?”

“You know, for your eye?”

“Trevor, we have like a dozen ice packs and cold compresses. Why do you want me to slap raw meat on my eye?” Ian shook his head and resumed his shuffle to the bathroom.

“Oh yeah, right,” Trevor said sheepishly.

“We’re not in a tv show, Trev,” Ian admonished and disappeared into the bathroom.

Despite getting the crapped kicked out of him, Ian seemed to be in a pretty great mood, Trevor observed. The personal satisfaction in finally getting your man must be unparalleled.

* * *

“You fucked me up,” Ian told Mickey over the phone. He doubted he had ever made a more layered statement in his life.

He peeked out his bedroom door to see Trevor splitting his attention between their television and the stack of paperwork next to him on the couch. He kept the door ajar in case Trevor decided to pop into their room, and drifted back to their bed.

“Not like I escaped unscathed, did I?” Mickey answered. “I didn’t expect you to call me the minute you turned the corner, Ian. Jesus, you’re such a serious dude. I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

How he had foolishly ignored this aspect of their relationship for so long, Ian would never be able to justify. Mickey sounded so sexy over the phone, and the possibilities that fact alone opened up were endless. 

“I’ll be calling you for weather reports, traffic updates, restaurant recommendations--you’re going to be my human Google. Lean into it,” Ian said and heard Mickey’s laugh give way to a long sigh. “What are you doing now?”

“Sitting in the tub, trying to put out this fire in my ass,” Mickey said candidly. “You won’t believe the ways some dickhead violated me tonight.”

“Sounds rough,” Ian said sympathetically. “You want me to kiss it and make it all better next time?”

There was a stunned silence from the other end of the line before Mickey finally found his voice. “You...do that kind of thing?”

Ian’s face split into a grin. Mickey sounded deliciously scandalized and intrigued all at once. “Do you want me to?”

Ian had no idea what possessed him to make that overture, because it was definitely not something he had been into--until now. The breathless anticipation in Mickey’s voice now had him on near tenterhooks to try. 

“I mean, okay, whatever. I’m game for anything,” Mickey said with faux breeziness.

Ian felt like doing a victory lap. He could perfectly imagine the blush now staining Mickey’s skin from his indecent suggestion. This must be what it felt like to medal in the Olympics. 

“It’s a date.”

* * *

Trevor knew that guy. He racked his brain trying to remember just how he did. It came to him in a flash--Frank Abagnale, Ian’s mystery guy from the gala. Trevor had forgotten all about him soon after they figured out his deal, and Trevor would never have imagined casually bumping into him. He certainly couldn’t have imagined this guy just strolling around the upscale Lincoln Park neighbourhood like he belonged there either. Trevor wondered if the ex-con was scoping the place out, planning to pull some kind of scam.

The most surprising thing about the scene had to be the fluffy, happy golden retriever, on his leash, contentedly trotting along next to said dude. Did he steal that dog? What was that whole deal? Ian would probably cream himself if he saw that dog, given the weird canine kick he’d been on lately. Trevor paused as man and dog headed into the huge pet store on the block, and Trevor hesitated only briefly before heading after them.

By the time he found them in the store, the master thief was already pushing a cart loaded with dog food and assorted pet crap, and was looking for all the world like your standard dog dad. Trevor didn’t buy it. He entered shadow mode, determined to figure out what the man was up to in a neighborhood no real ex-con could rightly afford. He watched curiously as the dog, now off leash, perused the toy aisle and returned to the man with a Raggedy Ann looking squeaky toy.

“Who’s that supposed to be?” the man _(Milk-something?)_ asked, clearly amused. “And you don’t need another toy. You have a whole freaking toy chest to work through.”

The dog parked himself at the man’s feet and looked up expectantly, apparently with no intention of returning the toy. The man sighed.

“I swear to everything, the two of you with the same goddamned look. What have you done lately to merit a toy other than exist, Tony? Might I remind you how far behind you are on your rent?” The man gave the dog a harassed look as the pet wagged his tail and edged closer with the toy. “Fine, fucking fine, dump it.” The pet owner--apparently--rolled his eyes as the dog reared up and dropped the toy in the cart. The golden retriever immediately took off again. “One, Tony! I fucking swear!”

* * *

“You are never going to guess who I saw today when I was out doing site visits,” Trevor told Ian excitedly as he shed his jacket. “That guy; your guy!”

Ian could only look on askance while he ate his cereal. “Who’s that now?”

“Gala dude, Frank Abagnale? Milky-something?”

Ian nearly swallowed his spoon as his heart stopped. “Milkovich?”

“That’s the fucker; it was driving me crazy!” Trevor threw up his hands. “You are going to flip when I tell you this. He’s a dog dad!”

“What?” Ian squeaked.

“He has a Westminster show-level golden retriever, who rules his world apparently,” Trevor told Ian. “He bought that dog so much crap, and legit tried to reason with it about not getting a bunch of toys. An argument which he lost, by the way!”

“That’s fucking adorable,” Ian said with a pang. How unfair was it that Trevor got to witness that scene and not him. He then remembered himself and the situation. “Wait, how did you see all this? Were you following him?!”

“Of course I was!”

“Why? Why? Why would you do that? Why are you following him?” Ian demanded. “What was the point?!”

“He’s one of your criminals! We profiled this guy together. It was like seeing an unsub in the wild,” Trevor said gleefully.

“Okay, first of all, he’s not an unsub, not a criminal. He used to be, but he’s not any more,” Ian reminded Trevor. “Secondly, he’s also an asset, a fellow employee of the Bureau, who probably wouldn’t appreciate being shadowed by crazy social workers. Oh my god, did he make you?!”

“Almost immediately.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake--Trevor!”

“Relax, he just thought I was cruising him,” Trevor said dismissively. “As if. He was not here for it though, which I have to say, strikes me as pretty homophobic.”

Ian felt like he was taking crazy pills, or rather, had skipped his crazy-suppressing pills. “Homophobic how?” he asked faintly.

“You should have seen the death glares he was giving me! Like how dare I be in the same aisle as him and his dog--like I was disgusting. Homophobe.”

“Or he was pissed and suspicious about some weird guy tailing him. Maybe he’s gay and you simply aren’t his type.”

“Now that’s just blasphemous, because I am everybody’s type, Ian,” Trevor reminded him. “I have broad, cross-spectrum appeal, and everyone knows this.”

“Please leave this guy and his dog alone,” Ian said weakly. He could not deal with his worlds colliding like this. Still, he couldn’t let good intel go to waste. “Um, which neighborhood was this by the way?”

“Lincoln Park, extra-bougie section!” Trevor informed him. “There is no goddamn way he was there legitimately. We can’t even think of affording there yet, so what the fuck is he up to?! That dog is probably a cover. You should look into it,” Trevor said with a firm nod.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on him--it,” Ian corrected quickly, “I’ll get right to solving the case of the FBI asset and his happy dog.”

“You’re such a funny guy, Ian Gallagher. But you’ll see,” Trevor warned. “At least I’m not going to be the guy who’s going to get his shit stolen out from right under his nose.”

* * *

“Something I can help you with, Ian?”

Ian grinned at Mickey’s fake huffiness. It was getting a little easier to work out Mickey’s tones of voice with each passing day. It also helped when Mickey eagerly picked up after only one ring.

“I’m leaving work now and I just remembered you saying one time how I’d call you to hide a body, but not to get my dick sucked. I admit, that would be pretty weird,” Ian said as he climbed into his car. “So, it turns out that right now, I kinda definitely want to get my dick sucked, Can you make that happen for me?”

“I suppose I can help you out.”

“Awesome. Where do I meet you?”

Mickey hummed softly. “Give me a sec. I’ll drop you a pin,” he told Ian before disconnecting their call.

A couple minutes later, Mickey’s directives came, instructing Ian to find him in Lincoln Park. It seemed Ian was about to solve Trevor’s mystery after all.

* * *

Ian had no idea why his heart was hammering so hard at the sight of the upscale condominium complex. Granted, his heart always hammered away whenever Mickey arranged one of their meet-ups, but this felt like a different beast. Perhaps it was because this was the first site that wasn’t Southside, Ian wasn’t sure. He wiped damp palms on his pants and headed inside where he was immediately greeted by a young doorman.

“Hey, Mr. Gallagher?” the doorman asked, staring pointedly at Ian’s hair and letting Ian know that that was the main descriptor the doorman been given. “Up in 4D.”

Ian nodded his thanks and made his way to the elevator. He finally made it to the white door and took it in. There was no way this was just a safe house. Ian wetted his lips and pressed the doorbell. A moment later, he swore he could hear the faintest bark from behind the door.

* * *

Tony scampered to the door at the sound of the bell and barked to let Ian know they’d be together in short order. Except his master was still perched on the arm of his coach, chewing apprehensively on his lower lip, as if he wasn’t sure what to do when the doorbell rang. Tony looked at Mickey expectantly, then back to the door, then back to Mickey again. Mickey seemed paralyzed and Tony was confused by his inaction. Their friend was at the door, but the door was locked, ergo, the door required opening. Tony would open it himself, but Mickey was the one with all the thumbs in their relationship. Ian rang the bell again and Tony barked at Mickey.

“I know, I fucking know!” Mickey said irritably. “I know he’s out there; I’m the one who gave him the address. Could you two just give me a minute?!”

Mickey sighed and finally shoved to his feet. He made his way to the door and hesitated a while longer before taking a deep, steadying breath and finally opening it.

“Hi,” Ian said after they had stared at each other for a moment. He realized Mickey still seemed to be in the middle of making a decision.

“Hi,” Mickey responded softly, before ultimately stepping aside and letting Ian in. 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Raggedy Ann looking squeaky toy is a reference to Carrie calling Ian a "Raggedy Ann looking raggedy bitch" in SHITW:Lockdown. One of my favourite insults to date. ♥  
> Thanks for all the love and feedback, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.  
> Let me know what you thought! ♥


	9. Mr. Right Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Mood Music: Mr. Right Now (21 Savage ft. Drake)**  
>  Literally the anthem for this stage of Ian and Mickey's relationship.
> 
> A few people asked how many chapters are left. I have no idea, as usual. If I had to gauge (and please don't hold me to this), we're probably a little more than halfway? I'm not sure. This was a quick story in my head, I swear.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Thanks for all the lovely feedback, and please feel free to share your thoughts. I live for it.

**_Rule 6: Get regular checkups._ ** _Obviously you should see your healthcare provider on the regular, but also get checked by your real ones (you should have at least one or two in your corner). The side piece universe is rife with pitfalls and opportunities for grievous missteps and mistakes. Mistakes which are easy to miss when you have blinders on. Link with the friends and family who love you, but who are also judgmental AF and should be easily able to catch you slipping and call you out on it. It helps you minimize the mess._

_Admittedly, this rule is a bit tentative since do y’all listen? Nooo, you’re grown, so it just goes in one ear and right out the other. Not two days after we helped you douse this bitch’s belongings in gasoline and set it all aflame, you two assholes are back together. Now your real ones are all twisted and madder than you are about your own fucked up situation. And this is after we read a bitch and told them about their momma, their bad credit, and their tenuous grasp on personal hygiene...to their face! Now it’s mad awkward until y’all break up again, and now you and your fellow clown have the audacity to be mad at us together for being on your side in the first place! So disrespectful._

_...But yeah, get checked or get wrecked._

* * *

“Your place is amazing,” Ian sighed into the warmth of Mickey’s skin as he nipped at Mickey’s back, making Mickey laugh softly.

“How would you even know? Not like you actually saw it. You took two steps inside and got on me.”

Mickey wasn’t wrong. The moment after Mickey had opened the door, Ian had developed a severe case of tunnel vision and couldn’t really take note of anything but his host. Mickey’s bedroom was amazing though, so by the process of extrapolation, the entire condo had to be pretty solid at least.

“Oh no, did I say hi to Tony?” Ian gasped with sudden realization.

“I don’t think you did, but don’t worry about it,” Mickey reassured him. “He’s a soft touch who can’t usually hold a grudge.” 

Mickey flipped over onto his back and wet his lower lip suggestively as Ian slid up to face him. Ian didn’t ignore the invitation and closed the short distance to kiss Mickey deeply and press against him. It would be a while before they came up for air, and when Ian eventually pulled back, he genuinely felt as if he was drunk.

“So, you want a tour or something?” Mickey asked after the room stopped spinning and Ian nodded dazedly. They eventually got out of Mickey’s bed and Ian could finally take a look around.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from Mickey’s bedroom, but Ian was surprised at the normalcy and how grown-up it was. It was a large, airy room, and the large, curtained windows captured all of the dying afternoon light possible and cast the room in a soft, yellow glow. The clothes piled haphazardly on the overstuffed chair was a given, as was the giant wall-mounted tv across from the bed, but the cool, muted, colour coordinated aesthetic was unexpected.

“Carrie,” Mickey said simply, as if reading Ian’s thoughts.

“Your handler?”

“She decorated,” Mickey explained with a lopsided smile. “The only thing I could say shit about were my electronics and my art. She said home should calm me down at the end of the day, not rile me up. ”

Now that made sense. The general décor was soothing, but the artwork and knickknacks definitely screamed Mickey. Eclectic artwork and posters for the Clash and the Velvet Underground stood in dark contrast to the tasteful furnishings and the rumpled king-sized bed.

“Master bedroom,” Mickey declared as he pulled down his tank top and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Next stop, living room.”

Clearly Carrie ruled with an iron hand with a velvet glove. Mickey’s savage self-expression burst out throughout and around the black and grey furnishings of the large living room. Trevor would have wept if he ever saw that mini bar and partially enclosed kitchen. It really was a whole “gangster trying to go good” vibe. Ian was momentarily distracted from the tour by a golden blur barrelling into him.

“Guest bedroom and bathroom are through there,” Mickey continued blithely, ignoring Ian and Tony’s lovefest, “another half bathroom is there, but do you really care about them?” 

“Okay, you are not doing this on the Bureau’s dime,” Ian said, shaking his head as he disengaged from Tony. “How are you affording all this?”

“You’re right, Bureau wages are chicken feed, but crime definitely pays,” Mickey grinned.

“No, it doesn’t,” Ian reminded him and fisted a hand in Mickey’s tank top to yank him close, naturally delighting Mickey to no end. “You’ve gone straight.”

“Nothing straight about me,” Mickey said cheekily. “Relax, Ian, it’s not like I would ever admit to a federal agent that I hid most of my ill-gotten gains from discovery, right? This is all from my security consultancy gig. Just because I let you bend me over for free, doesn’t mean my services come cheap.”

“As long as you’re trying to stay on the straight and narrow,” Ian chided gently and sighed a little when Mickey simply rolled his eyes and broke free of his grasp. Ian turned his attention back to his surroundings. “I guess I kinda thought you’d be living in some version of your motel room,” Ian said.

“I was living in my motel room for a while after I took the deal,” Mickey said. “I burned through a few handlers at the time too until I got Carrie. Rough start, but we clicked after a while. Then she got fucking familiar, as seems to be the trend,” Mickey said wryly as he gave Ian a significant look, “and all of a sudden she’s saying the motel was depressing as shit and I needed to get a grown-up joint for her to hang out in. She’s on the co-op board for this building, and none of them can say no to her. Badabing, badaboom, I own a condo straight out of ‘Architectural Digest’.”

Ian grinned at the story and looked around to continue his exploration of his newest wonderland. He turned and almost jumped out of his skin at the fire-engulfed warrior glaring at him. How the hell he had missed a full-sized, floor-length painting of some red-headed, bare chested, blood-covered, god of war type screaming out of the flames and smoke, was beyond Ian. That tunnel-vision Mickey induced could be life threatening. 

The painting was raw and visceral, and the painted blue-eyes were piercing and hostile. The talent was undeniable, but Ian found he was not a fan. It was “depict anarchy 101” as far as Ian was concerned. Still, he drew closer to examine it and his eye caught the dedication at the far top corner of the painting.

_“For my Mikhailo, with love from your Ivan.”_

Who, the fuck, was Ivan?!

Was that dedication written in blood? 

And why did he know Mickey’s government name?

Again, who, the everloving fuck, was Ivan?!

“Fucking amazing, right?” Mickey said as he came up behind Ian. “I love that shit, it’s my favourite,” Mickey said with deep and genuine admiration that set Ian’s teeth on edge. “I wish I could do the whole art thing, man. I can draw an amazing rack and some wonky dick, but I pretty much peaked with that.”

“It’s not like paintings and pictures are the be all and end all of visual art, let alone art in general,” Ian said, turning to Mickey. “I think you’re art.”

“Oh my god,” Mickey expelled in a whoosh, “how can you say that shit and not just, like, explode? You’re so fucking corny.”

“I can speak my truth without embarrassment. It’s not a problem for the truly confident. I think you’re art; the things you say and do, the way you move, the way you look…” Ian grinned as the flush crept up Mickey’s skin. All he wanted to do with the rest of his life was discover all the things that turned Mickey blushing and bashful, to find all the things that secretly delighted him. He pulled Mickey to him and slipped his hands beneath Mickey’s tank top. “Want me to sing it? I could do an interpretive dance? All perfectly valid forms of art.”

“You’re full of shit,” Mickey muttered, but he was quickly turning a deeper shade of red and refusing to meet Ian’s eyes even as he leaned into Ian’s warmth and touch.

“And yet I’m being completely serious.”

“Stupid,” Mickey sniffed and, as usual, tried to regain some footing. “So you’re supposed to be some kind of connoisseur? Is that it?”

Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand and slid it down his chest until it rested on the bulge in Ian’s pants. “I could be your biggest patron; make frequent contributions to your efforts to show my appreciation.” Ian moaned softly when Mickey unzipped his pants and groped his hardening erection. “Actually, I think I could make a contribution right now.”

Mickey burst out laughing and grabbed the back of Ian’s neck with his free hand to yank Ian into a kiss. Ian returned the kiss eagerly and rolled his hips into Mickey’s touch as Mickey squeezed and stroked him to full hardness. Ian pulled back to tug off Mickey’s top and made short work of shoving down Mickey’s sweatpants and stripping him bare.

“Is it art that you can get me naked so fast?” Mickey panted as they stumbled back into Mickey’s bedroom.

“No, that’s not art, that’s magic,” Ian cheesed maddeningly, and laughed when Mickey shoved him backwards into the bed with a roll of his eyes. Mickey paused to rifle through his drawers only to come up empty.

“Seriously?” Ian scoffed and reached for his wallet on the nightstand. “You have a whole pharmacy display at the motel.”

“I didn’t stock for you okay,” Mickey said defensively. “I don’t fuck here. The one we just used was the last I had on me.”

Of course Ian latched on to the key part of Mickey’s explanation as he fished a condom out of his wallet. “You don’t take any guys here?”

“Don’t,” Mickey wagged a warning finger at him and quickly distracted Ian from reading too much into things by getting to his knees and deepthroating Ian’s cock. It was super effective.

Ian threw his head back, buried a hand in Mickey’s hair, and quickly lost himself in the wet heat of Mickey’s mouth. It took him a moment to realize that Mickey was wiggling his fingers, indicating that Ian should hand him the condom. He finally came to and handed it over, and Mickey removed the condom from the wrapper, rolled it a short distance over the head of Ian’s cock, and slowly and deliberately used his mouth to fully unroll it down the length of Ian’s shaft. Ian was mesmerized.

“Ugh, god, so gross!” Mickey sputtered as he pulled back, momentarily breaking the spell. “That wasn’t a flavored one, Ian!” he accused, as if Ian had maliciously misled him.

“Why would you think it was? Not for nothing though, and I’m sorry if that was gross for you, but that continues to be one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen,” Ian nodded, deeply appreciative of Mickey’s condom application techniques. “I told you you were art.”

Mickey snorted but had no snappy retort. Instead, he squirted a bit of lube onto his fingers, quickly prepared himself and climbed atop Ian. He slowly lowered himself onto Ian’s cock and they both sighed with pleasure when he was fully seated.

It was never going to be slow and searching when Mickey was in control. Ian gripped Mickey’s hips and gave himself over to it as Mickey rode him hard and heedlessly. Their voices filled the room as Mickey braced himself on Ian’s pecs and Ian hung on for dear life. Ian knew he wasn’t going to last very long, and moved to stroke Mickey’s cock to achieve mutually assured destruction when he was distracted by his phone ringing. The ringtone told him it was Trevor calling from his office number--shit.

“Uh, can we--”

“No,” Mickey panted.

“Maybe just for a couple--”

“Nope!”

The phone stopped ringing for a moment, but before Ian could feel any relief and refocus on the matter at hand, the ringing resumed. Ian was a little worried it was important or urgent, but he knew Mickey wasn’t about to cooperate. He grabbed the phone as Mickey continued rocking on top of him, and took a deep breath. He could do this, he had had full phone conversations while fucking Trevor a hundred times. He just needed to focus, keep the call very short and not sound weird.

“Hey, Trev!” Nope; way overly bright and at least one octave too high. All the same, Trevor didn’t seem to notice.

“Hey, babe. Are you about to get off?”

“Any second now,” Ian gasped.

“Yeah, I’m just finishing up here too. What are we having for dinner? Do you want me to get something or do you wanna do it?”

“I can--I’m about to--I’ll go--I’ll get something.” Jesus Christ. “What are you in the mood for?”

“It’s a hundred percent up to you,” Trevor said tiredly and clearly distracted as well. “You will not believe the fucking day I’ve had. Not even ten minutes after I got in, that fucking raging bull--” Trevor began, only for his voice to dissolve into a low, dull roar.

It was that dangerous tunnel vision again, Ian realized too late. Mickey’s eyes had opened and had connected with Ian’s, and now Mickey was grinning wickedly down at him and tightening around him. Ian had gone completely deaf to the man on the phone, and was now only acutely aware of Mickey, the feel of Mickey’s tight heat around his cock, and the devastating realization that he was about to come like a volcano while on the phone with his very unchill boyfriend. He didn’t even have the wherewithal to hit mute.

It was at the very last moment, as Ian erupted, that Mickey graciously clamped his hand over Ian’s nose and mouth, damn near suffocating him but managing to stifle Ian’s cry as he came.

“--roasted bone marrow, I think?” Trevor mused.

“Bone marrow?” Ian echoed hollowly, completely brain-fried and incredulous that Trevor was still going.

“Yeah, Alex said that was their best thing. Plus I know how you love the haute cuisine thing,” Trevor continued. “It’s a little out of our usual date price range, but I figured we can splurge a little this weekend. Sounds good, right?”

“Great...” Ian warbled, still not processing anything Trevor-related.

“Okay, see you at home in a bit. Pick up something good. Love you,” Trevor said.

“I love you,” Ian said with startling realization. “Oh my god, I’m in love with you.”

“You don’t have to sound so shocked by that,” Trevor, who could be forgiven for mistakenly assuming that Ian was talking to him, laughed. “You’re such a fucking weirdo sometimes. You’re lucky you’re hot.”

In fact, the only person who knew that Ian wasn’t referring to Trevor was Ian himself. He could only stare up dazedly at Mickey’s high ceiling as the realization that he was in love with a chaos demon rocked him. A chaos demon who did not care nearly enough about Ian’s life, apparently.

“The use of cell phones and other recording devices are generally frowned upon during major exhibitions, Ian,” Mickey sniffed haughtily as he tossed Ian some tissues. “A true patron of the arts would know that.”

Said demon then padded into his bathroom, whistling contentedly as he left the smoldering wreckage of a human being behind on his bed. Ian could only go back to staring at the ceiling. Well, shit.

* * *

“Unkian!” Freddie squealed happily from behind the screen door when he saw Ian alighting from his car.

Ian was going to be devastated when Freddie finally realized that “Uncle Ian” were actually two separate words. “Unkian” was the most adorable title Ian had ever held, and he wore it like a badge of honour. He hoped Lip and Tami would stay onboard and encourage that bit of nonsense forever, but the kid was growing like a weed and had a tortured genius for a dad, so Ian was already dreading the day. 

“Freddie-bear!” Ian returned in kind and scooped the giggling child up the moment Lip undid the safety locks and admitted Ian inside. 

Ian could barely manage to hug his brother before Freddie was off and chatting away at a mile a minute, filling Ian in on all he had missed since they last saw each other. Ian was enchanted--the world was an amazing place from the perspective of a precocious five year old. If Ian didn’t have some pressing matters weighing on him, he would have been perfectly content to spend the entirety of his visit listening to Freddie regale him with tales of kindergarten. That being said…

“God, he’s adorable,” Ian sighed and nodded as Freddie gave him the hot goss about turtles. Ian finally turned to his amused brother. “Where is Tami?”

* * *

The brothers successfully pawned off the little boy on his mother, and the two settled in Lip’s backyard as evening fell. Lip dragged the cooler closer to their chairs and grabbed a beer for Ian and a coke for himself.

“I’ll have what you're having,” Ian said, shaking his head when Lip tried to hand him the can of beer.

“Ian, I told you a thousand times that you don’t have to do the teetotaler thing when you’re around me,” Lip replied. “I have this for company; it’s fine. I can more than handle it.”

“I know, but I’ll have what you’re having. What’s wrong with that?”

Lip gave a small smile and surrendered, dropping the beer back into the cooler and retrieving another coke for Ian. “So what’s the emergency?”

“What makes you think there’s some kind of emergency?”

“Well, you just called to check if I was home and then hauled ass to Milwaukee on a Saturday evening. You pretty much punted my firstborn to his mom and dragged me out here. And, again, you’re in Wisconsin on a weekend.”

“What, I can’t come out to see my favourite sibling and his family, and take in the glory that is...here?”

“Here being Milwaukee?” Lip asked drily and looked on skeptically when Ian nodded. “You said Milwaukee was the world’s largest rest stop.”

“Did I?”

“You said Wisconsin was nothing but a haven for corn-fed, red necked, cheese heads,” Lip continued to remind Ian.

“Sounds harsh; don’t recall that.”

“You said I was a traitor to everything good, decent and Southside.”

“Look, I was angst-filled and upset about you moving further away, alright?” Ian defended himself. “That was years ago!”

“You said the corn-fed thing last month!” Lip retorted. “Ian, why are you here?!”

“I met someone, okay?!” Ian confessed. “Been seeing him for a few months now and I’m losing my shit.”

“Oh,” Lip hummed thoughtfully, “Who is it?”

“An asset I met while I was on duty.”

“An asset? Benign or used to be a big bad?” Lip asked.

“He’s straightened out,” Ian added quickly. “And he’s Southside too. Name’s Mickey Milkovich.”

Lip blinked. “Milkovich? He’s one of Terry Milkovich’s kids?”

Ian threw up his hands in exasperation. “Am I the only one on the planet with no prior knowledge of any kind about Mickey before that night?”

“Terry has a queer kid who’s working with the FBI? If he ever found out, he’d probably commit seppuku,” Lip laughed. “That douche is like a white nationalist bingo card.” Lip shook his head and sipped his soda. “You and Trevor finally broke up then, huh?”

“What do you mean by ‘finally’?” Ian bristled. “Why ‘finally’? Was there an expiration date on our relationship I didn’t know about?”

Lip looked at Ian askance. “But you just said--”

“I know what I just said, but why ‘finally’, is what I’m trying to understand,” Ian said. “Are you still being a transphobic douche about Trevor? Am I going to have to punch you in the throat again?”

“You put your foot in your mouth just as often as I did when you guys were just starting, so don’t act like you’re the woke king all of a sudden,” Lip said. “Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t broken up with Trevor yet?”

Ian took a guilty sip of soda. “It’s complicated.”

Now Lip understood the urgency. “How deep into it are you with this new guy?”

Ian inhaled sharply and shrugged. “I don’t know; a little deep, I guess. We’ve fucked like a thousand times. I’ve bonded with his dog. I think we should get matching tattoos.”

“Fuck, Ian.”

“Hey, that could be Mickey’s tattoo--‘Fuck Ian’. It’s simple, funny, shows possession without being too syrupy. I’ll run it by him when I know he won’t cut my throat at the suggestion.”

Lip could only shake his head. “You’re a fucking mess. So you came here because you want me to tell you what to do?”

“No, I came here to see my family, tell you about all the insane sex I’m having, and then have you tell me what to do and how to do it,” Ian said with a sigh. “I am losing my shit, Lip. I can’t keep anything straight, and what the fuck did you mean by ‘finally’?!”

“Trevor’s a dick, alright?!” Lip finally shared. “You know he’s a dick; you’ve said so. He does nothing but shit all over you and over all of us. I thought you guys would have hit a wall by now, but you are nothing if not tenacious. But you have Mickey. Are you planning to leave Trevor now then?”

“No!” Ian said incredulously. “I wouldn’t leave Trevor for Mickey. Mickey is a sex warlock who might be holding on to grand designs for being a Bond villain. That is not an ideal environment for me. I can’t believe you’d suggest that. Is that what you really think I should do?”

“Hold the fucking phone; I wasn’t suggesting anything,” Lip said quickly. “I was asking!”

“You said Trevor and I should break up!”

“I said I thought you would have broken up by now, not that you should!” Lip cried. “Do you want to break up?!”

“No, I said no! I mean maybe, but no...no. I love Trevor and-and he’s perfect for me,” Ian sputtered with decreasing conviction the longer he spoke. “He’s the one I need to be with.”

Lip looked at his brother skeptically. This felt like such a trap, but he had to bite. “How is he perfect for you? How do you reason that out?”

“He knows me,” Ian answered after a while, “the real me--all of me. And I know him. We’ve seen each other at our lowest and we helped each other through it all the time. I couldn’t just throw that away,” Ian said quietly. It became clear to both brothers that Ian wasn’t just explaining it to Lip, he was also reminding himself. “When I melted down in Japan and got discharged, he was the one who gave me a place to stay when I got home, even though we’d barely just started seeing each other from the last time I was home. He was the one who helped me even out, get on my meds and get my head on straight even while I was losing all my shit.”

“We would have done that for you, Ian,” Lip said with a pang of guilt. “We would have come gotten you if you’d let us.”

“How? You were going through your own spiral and dealing with your family. How was I going to put that on you? Everyone was dealing with their shit,” Ian said. “Even now I couldn’t do that to you guys. You and Deb have families and small kids, who knows fuck all where Fiona is right now. Liam’s a kid. And Carl? Just put me the fuck down if Carl has to be my caregiver. He’d probably spike my pills trying to turn me into the Scarlet Witch,” he said, and he and Lip shared a laugh. “I mean, he might not know what to do about a dead body, but if I started going sideways, Trevor would know what to do and he’d do it. I know that, I can trust that. What the fuck would Mickey do if he knew what was locked away inside my head; if he could see it? Probably run for the hills and go fuck Ivan.”

“Who is Ivan?” Lip asked, nonplussed.

“I don’t fucking know, it’s been driving me up the fucking wall for the past few days,” Ian said cryptically. “I mean I’d never even have finished my degree if Trevor hadn’t stayed on me, kicking my ass the whole time.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you haven’t done for him too,” Lip said. “You were there with him every step of the way through all his surgeries and the complications and the recovery. It’s been a two way street, Ian.”

“Exactly, we’ve been through all that shit together, and I know that Trevor would do it all again if we had to. I can’t walk away from that for something that might go up in smoke after a minute,” Ian reasoned. “I can’t just have...no one.”

“I understand, I do. And it’s probably fucked for me to say otherwise because technically none of us have ever really been alone like that,” Lip said. All the siblings had more or less drifted from their old home in the Southside into other cohabiting situations without a break. “But staying with someone you’re not into just in case you need a mental health nurse is still fucked, Ian.”

“I’m not; I love Trevor, I do! It’s just, ugh,” Ian sighed heavily and buried his face in his hands.

“Okay, so what are you going to do about Mickey, then?” Lip challenged. “Because if you don’t want to fuck things up with Trevor, getting your rocks off behind his back isn’t going to cut it. You’re planning to end things there?”

“I can’t,” Ian moaned into his hands. “I can’t end it with Mick yet. I have a condition.”

“A condition?” Lip laughed. “What the fuck are you talking about? You in love with this guy?” The ensuing silence was deafening. “What, like seriously?”

“I thought it would have fizzled out by now,” Ian sighed and slumped back in his lawn chair. “But he just crawled under my fucking skin and got stuck there. Now I’m just here waiting for the boredom to hit him and for him to destroy me.”

Lip drained his can and rubbed his stubble as gloom and doom radiated from his brother. “So you’re not willing to give up on anybody, is what you’re saying?” Lip asked and Ian only gave him a helpless look. “I don’t know what the fuck you want me to tell you here, Ian? How do you plan to do this?”

“I was hoping you’d help with that part, at least,” Ian said. “I just have to plan it, right? I just have to be careful and practical and sort that shit out...right? I can have the feelings with Mickey and the security with Trevor; I just can’t be sloppy about it.”

“You're trying to be a sensible romantic, Ian, and that's a contradiction. I don't think you get to have it both ways," Lip told his brother. “Passion or practicality, man. You're either willing to stay the course or getting ready to risk it all.”

“I drove all the way to the toilet of the Midwest for you to tell me that trite bullshit?!” Ian hissed at his brother. “You are the most unhelpful Phillip I have ever met.”

“Good talk, Ian. At least I’m not the one in the relationship equivalent of a safety school.”

“Oh fuck you,” Ian said irritably, “I should just listened to the rest of the story about the goddamned turtles.”

* * *

The smart lock on Mickey’s door opened automatically as Carrie drew close. She bumped the door open with her hip and marched in to deposit the two grocery bags on Mickey’s dining room table.

“What’s all that?” Mickey asked and got off his couch to investigate.

“Some charity groceries,” Carrie informed him and braced herself for Tony to launch himself at her. “You know you live like a New York City subway rat, boo. Tony! Toni! Toné!” she yelled and sent Tony into a near frenzy. That dog had been having an amazing month with the drop-bys. It was a miracle he hadn’t passed out from excitement yet. “You wanna dance like Elmo?” Carrie asked in her pitch-perfect Elmo voice. “Let’s dance like Elmo!”

While Mickey unpacked his groceries, Carrie and Tony got their Sesame Street dance party on. “I don’t think Elmo knows how to Dougie,” Mickey pointed out.

“Elmo thinks Mickey should mind his own motherfucking business and not saddle Elmo with his sad, restrictive, preconceived notions! Yay!” Carrie said with a full-bodied wiggle that Tony did an amazing job of mimicking.

“Mickey stands corrected,” he said and retrieved the large bottle of Fireball Whisky. Carrie was Fireball trash. “We have got to get you hooked to some better standards of liquor,” Mickey chided as he took the bottle to his minibar to set up some shots.

“Man, just full of opinions nobody asked you for today, huh?” Carrie retorted and climbed up onto a stool as Mickey set up the glasses. “Shut up and pour up, please.” She picked up her first shot and eyed Mickey. “So what are we going to do tonight, Brain?”

“Same thing we do every night, Pinky--get drunk, talk shit, and disrespect my furniture,” Mickey said and raised his shot.

“Tight!” Carrie agreed and they slammed back their shots.

* * *

“This song is my jam!” Carrie burbled from atop Mickey’s couch, several sheets to the wind.

“Every song is your fucking jam,” Mickey said and poured himself some stronger liquor, trying to get his buzz on too. He grinned as Carrie dropped down and got her eagle on, displaying her impressive knee and core strengths. “Wasted on you,” he tutted.

“Excuse you, bitch?”

“It was mostly a compliment,” he told her. “Those are excellent dick riding moves, but you don’t ride dick, so… Wasted on you.”

“Uh, you don’t know how I get my freak on,” Carrie said haughtily. “You need to loosen up and let me teach you these moves, son. Let me show you how to be that bitch when the lights turn down.”

“First of all, I don’t fuck with the lights out--look upon me and be awed and inspired.”

“Ooh, okay, that’s right,” Carrie giggled.

“And secondly, I didn’t say I couldn’t do those moves. What kind of bottom do you take me for?”

“Oh my god, show me what you got!” Carrie demanded.

“Fuck you, you gotta dick to ride?” he asked her, “then you don’t get the privilege.”

Carrie sucked her teeth and kept jamming, while Mickey was distracted by an incoming message.

 _“This is what my dick looks like in Milwaukee--”_ the message said, accompanied by Ian’s erect penis. _“--do you love it?”_

 _“I don’t fuck cheese dick,”_ Mickey retorted and laughed at the exaggerated sad face emoji that came back in response.

“What is that? Are you laughing at a pork loin?” Carrie asked as she gingerly climbed down from the couch to get a closer look. “What is that?”

“Gallagher cock,” Mickey explained after she confiscated his phone and squinted at the image. 

“Two weeks ago, he couldn’t figure out how to hit ‘dial’, but now he’s sending long distance dick? But oh my god, that’s his dick?!” Carrie gasped, thoroughly scandalized. “This explains so much. Actually, no it doesn’t. I do not understand how you dick lovers wake up every day and choose violence,” she said and thrust the phone dramatically at Mickey. “If a dude whipped that shit out at me, I would be gone. There would be a Carrie-shaped hole in the wall, Wile E. Coyote-style. At least fuck with small, polite dicks.”

“See, that’s where you’d be wrong--nothing more damaging than small dick, especially if an undisciplined fucker doesn’t know how to use it.”

“What?!”

“I’m serious,” Mickey nodded. “Big dicks, unless we’re talking about some insane colon destroyers--and we’re not, can pretty much only go in two directions, in and out. Hit your prostate a bunch of times--heaven. Little dicks? No goddamned predictability, no telling where they’ll be, more directions than a fucking sixteen-point compass. Small, unruly dick can rip your shit up if you’re not careful, have you all types of fucked up.”

“Why would you tell me this?!” Carrie screeched, horrified as Mickey took a diabolical sip of his whiskey. “You’re the worst!” she shuddered and went to collapse on the coach.

“Speaking of small, unruly dicks, guess who followed me into my pet store the other day?” he asked as he joined her on his couch. “Ian’s dude,” he answered when she raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.

“The incredible, edible egg?” Carrie asked, sitting up. “What the fuck? Why was he following you, does he know something?”

“Nah, he remembered me from when Ian was digging up info on me after the gala. He figured he’d have a little criminal investigation moment.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. “This is why white people stay getting killed in dumb ways in movies. You didn’t do or say anything to him?”

“I don’t give a shit about him,” Mickey sniffed. “I do not get their deal though.”

"Huh?"

“Egg and Ian--I don’t get it.”

Carrie hit him with some side-eye. “What’s to get?”

“Ian’s real Southside, you know? Egg’s some little bitch who just doesn’t get the hustle any at all. I can’t figure out why Ian puts up with it.”

“That’s not your problem,” Carrie reminded him. “You said the sex is fire, so by all means, put it on him, but don’t start wondering about that side of things… Mickey, are you slipping?”

Mickey laughed derisively as Carrie turned around to face him. “I’m making an observation, okay? The relationship seems messed up to me. I just think Ian could do better.”

“Better like who, you?”

“No, I’m just saying!”

“Boy, if you don’t stop,” Carrie began. “Don’t start buying any of the bullshit these faithless bitches want to sell. They want to keep you on your knees and on their dick, so they will tell you all kinds of cap to keep you soft. ‘Oh, he doesn’t understand me!’ ‘We’re not really together anymore.’ ‘We’re only together because of the kids/lease/student loans/green cards’, whatever the fuck. He tells you all that shit now, and at the end of the day after he gets off, he’s gonna pack that nice big dick right up and take it straight back to Egg, because that’s his home. Don’t get it twisted. It doesn’t matter how they work, or why they work, just know that they do and leave it.”

Mickey fidgeted and chewed on his lip uncomfortably. “I was just making an observation; you’re blowing this out of proportion. It’s still just messing around.”

“You’re going to mess around and get your feelings hurt, is what you’re going to do.” Carrie knew all of his tells, and also knew her words had stung despite Mickey’s denial. “I’m here worried you were going to blow this puppy up and cause workplace drama; you’re telling me I need to be worried about you?”

“Just an observation,” Mickey repeated once more--his worst tell since it meant he didn’t know what else to say.

Carrie softened. She was too drunk to be soothingly diplomatic, but she knew the minefield that was accidentally catching feelings well. “Broke boys don’t deserve no pussy, Mickey.”

That was enough to distract Mickey from his burgeoning mope session for the moment. “What?”

“Not just broke like money broke, but broke like with commitment and time and emotional availability,” Carrie nodded and smushed Mickey’s face between her hands so could stare seriously into Mickey’s eyes with her slightly unfocused ones. “Don’t give no commitment-broke boy your heart-pussy, Mick.”

Mickey blinked for a moment while she became distracted by squishing his cheeks and making him make fish faces. “You are fucking lit right now, aren’t you?”

“Why do you make those drinks so strong?” she wailed mournfully and unceremoniously stretched out on the couch and rested her head in Mickey’s lap. “Tony,” she called and immediately Tony was there and up on the couch to be snuggled.

Soon, lady and dog were dozing, leaving Mickey under a pile of dreadlocks and golden retriever, and alone with his thoughts.

* * *

“I’m back,” Ian sang out when he stepped into his apartment.

“Welcome back,” Trevor greeted his boyfriend, and shifted so Ian could sit on their couch and he could lean back into Ian and cuddle. “How was Lip, Tami, and Freddie?”

“They’re great. Freddie is amazing; he’s growing like a weed,” Ian answered.

They chatted for a while until they ran out of things to say, and sat cuddled together in companionable silence. Ian stroked his thumb over Trevor’s knuckles and thought over his visit with Lip. He couldn’t have both, Lip had warned him, and as much as he hated to think about it, Lip was probably right. 

Ultimately, he knew he’d have to cut Mickey loose at some point. He did love Trevor after all, as much as he bitched about his boyfriend at times. He had to love Trevor; fear of being alone and the unknown couldn’t have been the only things binding Ian to their relationship. He probably needed to try and cool the Mickey obsession a little and make more of an effort with Operation Reconnect. He really had been doing the bare minimum on that front. 

Of course Lip and Hernandez thought his relationship would have fizzled by now. It’s not like they really knew the other sides of Trevor the way he did. Sure, Trevor could be arrogant and condescending, but then again, Trevor was usually right about the stuff he was arrogant and condescending about. The delivery might be lacking, but the content was there, and that was Trevor in a nutshell.

“You are thinking so hard right now, you’re glaring at me and everything,” Trevor chuckled and reached up to massage the furrow in Ian’s brow. “What’s up, new case?”

“Nah, just tying up some old ones in my head,” Ian said. “You want to put on some of your slow jams and fuck around?”

“Oh, okay...are we taking turns though?” Trevor asked him.

“Yeah, sure,” Ian agreed. With all the shit he’d been up to lately, thinking of England while he took it up the ass was the least he could do.

* * *

“What time is it?” Trevor asked sleepily. He squinted at Ian as his boyfriend got dressed in the dark.

“Early, you can go back to sleep,” Ian answered him. “Doing some raids today.”

“Oh shit, be careful.”

“Nah, don’t even worry about it.” Ian came around the bed and kissed Trevor gently on the lips. “It’s going to be some of those ‘nab the paperwork before they can shred them’ deals. No biggie.”

* * *

It was barely past the ass-crack of dawn and there was some soon to be dead asshole at his door. Mickey grabbed his phone and checked the video feed from his doorway. 

“What the fuck, Gallagher?” Mickey demanded after he opened the door and stood solidly in the doorway.

“What, why am I Gallagher?” Ian asked nonplussed. They hadn’t seen each other in two days, and suddenly he was name demoted and there was closed off body language in Mickey’s crossed arms and suspicious eyes.

“Did I enter some sort of fugue state and call you?” Mickey said sarcastically, though it wasn’t a total impossibility with the state of things. “Are we really doing unannounced drop-ins now before the sun is even up? I thought we had rules.”

“We do?” Ian asked innocently.

“You’re the one who’s been making and breaking them, Gallagher, you tell me.”

What the fuck had happened in two days? Ian wasn’t sure how yet, but he was pretty sure Ivan was to blame. Instead, he tried to diffuse whatever it was that was happening here. He offered Mickey the McDonald’s takeout bag in a conciliatory gesture.

“I bought you McGriddles,” he said hopefully. “I know you love these and got a whole bunch to say sorry in case I woke you up. I just wanted to see you before work.”

Mickey glanced at the bag, looked up at Ian’s face, and swallowed convulsively. He could hear Carrie in his head yelling at him about heart-pussies and getting conned and letting Ian get away with murder. In all fairness though, Carrie wasn’t here, and Ian had brought him his favourite breakfast--and a bunch of McGriddles too, so that was a nice bonus. Mickey sucked his teeth and stepped aside.

“Can’t wait for the day when you don’t have to think so hard to let me in,” Ian said sincerely.

“Who knows, you might even get a key,” Mickey said with mock optimism. “So am I crazy or didn’t you say I probably wasn’t going to see you for a couple more days while you sorted out some shit?”

Ian dropped the food on the dining room table and gave Tony a good morning scratch behind the ears. He had fully intended to take a couple days off from Mickey and pour some energy into connecting with Trevor. He still intended to try with Trevor, but his resolve to stay away from Mickey had crumbled almost instantly, and he was barely able to stay put in bed for the entire night.

“Yeah, I was planning to handle some stuff, but I missed you,” he said honestly, catching Mickey off guard. Ian figured he might as well save the lying energy for when he really needed it. “I just really fucking missed you.”

It was like walking through a desert sandstorm only to get hit by a Mack truck--impossible to avoid because who could see it coming and who could anticipate it? All the starch went out of Mickey and, once again, he was left defenseless.

“Oh,” Mickey said simply, for what else could he say? “Okay.”

The next moment they were devouring each other--dire portents forgotten while the sword of Damocles swung above them. They would figure it out later; it wasn’t as if you could cross a bridge before you got to it. 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Savage said "P*ssy so good I had to sneak back", Ian felt that. Ian felt that hard.


End file.
